CHAPTER IV

Forgotten Graves

ONE day, as the children stood by Granny Robin's side, they talked about the old graves in the churchyard. It was a bright spring evening, and the golden sunshine was streaming through the branches of the ragged, untidy trees, which nearly hid the old church from sight. Granny Robin could not see the sunshine, but Stephen could see it, and he told her about it, and said he was sure the swallows liked it as much as he did, for they were flying round and round in long circles, twittering as they flew.

It had become quite a regular thing for Stephen to tell the old woman all he saw, and he loved to hear her say that she was now no longer blind, for she had found a pair of new eyes.

One day she called him her "little Hobab," and when he laughed and asked her why she gave him such a funny name, she said it was because, long, long ago, when Moses was travelling through the wilderness with the children of Israel, he said to his brother-in-law, Hobab:

"Thou mayest be to us instead of eyes." And she said that God had sent little Stephen to her, in her old age, that he might be instead of eyes to her.

"I am so sorry for those poor graves," said Stephen on that spring evening, when he had been telling Granny Robin about the sunlight and the swallows.

"Why are you sorry for them?" asked the old woman.

"They look so sad and lonely," said Stephen.

"What are they like?" asked Granny Robin.

"Oh, all green and dirty," said Audrey, "and the trees are fallen against them, and when the wind blows, their branches go beat, beat, beat, against the stones, till Aunt Cordelia says she can't bear to hear them when she's in bed at night."

"Does nobody bring flowers to put on them?" asked the old woman.

"No, never," said little Stephen.

"Nor wreaths?"

"Oh no, never."

"Does no one ever come to look at them?"

"No, never once, Granny Robin," said Audrey.

"And they do look so sad," said Stephen.

"Yes," said the little girl, "I went with Aunt Cordelia to the cemetery one day, and it's lovely there, just like a garden; the flowers are beautiful, and there were heaps of people watering graves, and raking them and pulling off the dead flowers, and some of them were crying."

"But no one cries over these graves," said Granny Robin.

"No, not one person," said Stephen. "My father says all the people that loved them are dead and buried themselves."

"Poor forgotten graves!" said the old woman. "And my grave will be like one of them in fifty years' time—a forgotten grave."

She was talking to herself more than to the children, but little Stephen answered her.

"Will no one remember it, Granny Robin?"

"Yes, some one will," she said brightly; "my Lord will never forget. He will know where it is, and whose body lies inside, and it will be safe in His care till the great Resurrection Day."

"Will the angels know too?" said Stephen.

"I think they will," she said.

"Do they know who are buried in these poor old graves?" asked the child.

"Yes, I believe they do," said the old woman.

"In every one?"

"Yes, in every one."

"Even when the names are worn off?" asked the little boy.

"Yes, I believe they do," said Granny Robin softly.

"I'm so glad," said Stephen. "Then maybe the angels do come and look at them sometimes. I expect they come at night, when Audrey and me are in bed. I'll get out and look some night, Granny Robin; maybe I shall see them; my window looks out this way."

The forgotten graves weighed heavily on Stephen's mind after this talk with the old woman. When Audrey was at school, he used to wander up and down amongst them, pitying them with all the pity of his loving little heart. And he would try to put aside some of the branches that kept blowing against the stones, and which were so fast wearing them away, and he would pull up some of the long grass, which in some places hid the stones completely from sight.

"Audrey—" he said one afternoon when Aunt Cordelia had given her leave to have a long play with him, "Audrey, couldn't we make these poor old graves look nice?"

"We couldn't do them all," said Audrey. "Why, Stephen, there must be a hundred or more!"

"No, we couldn't do them all; we might begin with two—one for you and one for me, Audrey."

"Well, let's choose," said the little girl. "We'll walk round and have a look at them all."

"We'll have one with some reading on," said Stephen, "and then we shall know what to call it."

"Here's a poor old stone against the wall," said Audrey; "I'll read you what it says."

"'SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES HOLDEN, WHOSE REMAINS LIE HERE INTERRED. HE WAS OF HUMANE DISPOSITION, A SOCIAL COMPANION, A FAITHFUL SERVANT, AND A SINCERE FRIEND. HE DEPARTED THIS LIFE THE 23RD OF DECEMBER, 1781. AGED 38.'"

"I don't like that one bit," said Stephen; "it has got too many hard words in it."

"Well, here's another."

"'IN MEMORY OF JOHN POWELL. DIED IN 1781. ALSO MARY, RELICT OF THE ABOVE, WHO DIED JANUARY 20, 1827, AGED 87. ALSO TWO GRANDCHILDREN, WHO DIED YOUNG.'"

"That's much nicer," said Stephen. "I like those two grandchildren who died young. I wonder how old they were; do you think they were as old as you and me, Audrey?"

"I don't know," said Audrey; "it doesn't say, and it doesn't tell if they were girls or boys."

"Never mind," said Stephen, "we can guess. I think one was a girl and one was a boy. And are their bodies really down under here, Audrey?"

"Yes, what there is of them," said Audrey; "Aunt Cordelia says they turn to dust."

"Oh," said little Stephen, in an awestruck voice, "I wish we could see the dust of the two grandchildren who died young! I'll have this grave, Audrey, and take care of them. Is there any one else inside it?"

"Yes, there's John Powell, died in 1781; also Mary, relict of the above," read Audrey.

"What does relict mean?" asked Stephen.

"Aunt Cordelia has a relict," said Audrey, "and she keeps it in a box."

"Is it a woman?" asked Stephen.

"No, it's a bit of grey hair; she cut it off her mother's head when she was dead, and she says it's a relict. I don't know what she means, but she keeps it locked up ever so safe."

"I hope John Powell didn't lock Mary up," said Stephen.

"She must have got out if he did," said Audrey, "for she lived a long, long, long time after him. He died in 1781, and she didn't die not until 1827; let me count up, it's quite a long sum. Why, it's forty-six years, Stephen!"

"Oh dear," said Stephen, "that is a long time! Let's tell Granny Robin about it, and I'll ask her if she would have that one if she was me."

Granny Robin quite approved of their plan, and of Stephen's choice of the two grandchildren who died young. She told them that relict meant the wife left behind, and tears came into the old woman's sightless eyes, as she sat at her knitting and thought of the poor widow left behind for forty-six years. She pictured her living on and on, year after year, coming doubtless often to that grave to look at the place where her John lay, but still kept waiting for forty-six years for the glad day when she should see him again.

Granny Robin thought it must have seemed a longs dreary time to poor Mary. And then, maybe, those two grandchildren were a cheer and comfort to her. Yet they were taken, they died young, but old Mary still lived on. Till at last, on that winter's day, January 20, 1827, the call, so long waited for, came, and she and her John were together again. Then, too, the old grandmother saw once more the faces of the two grandchildren who died young.

So Granny Robin mused as she sat at her work; and she wondered whether the waiting-time seemed as long to old Mary, as she looked back to it from the brightness and the joy of the Home above, or did it seem short as a troubled dream seems when we wake from sleep?

"Our light affliction, which is but for a moment."

So long, when we are passing through it; but for a moment, as we look back to it from God's eternity.