The man spoke on, musingly. "I suppose even you do not realize the good he does-the help he gives to others. He doesn't talk of himself-he never did-even to you, I suppose? No? It is like him, he was always so.
It was-it was in the cemetery I saw him this morning. I-when I come home-I always go there-my mother is there, you remember-I found him by-by your little boy. He was talking, with the sexton when I came up.
It seems the grass didn't grow about the little fellow's-bed. The man admitted that his own little folks were accustomed to play there-the lot is shady and close to the house-they bring their toys and frolic there till the grass is quite worn away. You should have seen his face when the man told him that.
'Let them come,' he said; 'don't stop them; the grass doesn't matter.' 'The boy won't be so lonely,' said he to me. 'It seems so far away out here-and he all by himself-he was such a little chap-I sort of feel one of us ought to stay with him-at night.
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