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 who should be his pall-bearers. Certainly such a tomb would make Jenkins turn in his grave.

He spread the plan on the table, with a paper-weight on each corner, and sat down before it. After considering it for an hour, he arose dissatisfied.

"Jenkins had a heap of flowers over him--common flowers, to be sure, but fresh enough. I dare say I could arrange for a supply, though. It's that confounded doggerel--

'_A Father kind, a Husband dear_.'

"That's Mrs. Jenkins's taste, I suppose. Still--of course I could better the verse; but one can't stick up a lie over one's remains. I wish to God I had a disconsolate wife, or a child, if only to spite Jenkins."

And I believe, my dear young lady, that underneath his tomb (whereon there now stands a marble figure of Fame and blows a gilt trumpet) he is still w