XVII
_A Remeeting in a Cemetery: the Unglassed Queed who loafed on
Rustic Bridges; of the Consequences of failing to tell a Lady that
you hope to see her again soon._
Fifi's grave had long since lost its first terrible look of bare
newness. Grass grew upon it in familiar ways. Rose-bushes that might
have stood a lifetime nodded over it by night and by day. Already "the
minute grey lichens, plate o'er plate," were "softening down the
crisp-cut name and date"; and the winds of winter and of summer blew
over a little mound that had made itself at home in the still city of
the dead.
Green was the turf above Fifi, sweet the peacefulness of her little
churchyard. Her cousin Sharlee, who had loved her well, disposed her
flowers tenderly, and stood awhile in reverie of the sort which the
surroundings so irresistibly invited. But the schedules of even electric
car-lines are inexorable; and presently she saw from a glance at her
watch that she must turn her face back to the city of the living.
On the little rustic bridge a hundred yards away, a man was standing,
with rather the look of having stopped at just that minute.
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