Melody is very fond of
white. It feels smoother than colors, she always says; and she would
wear it constantly if it did not make too much washing. One arm is
thrown over the curve of the headstone, while with the other hand she
follows the worn letters of the inscription, which surely no other
fingers were fine enough to trace.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
SUSAN DYER.
TRUE TO HER NAME,
She died Aug. 10th, 1814,
In the 19th year of her age.
The soul of my Susan is gone
To heighten the triumphs above;
Exalted to Jesus's throne
And clasped in the arms of his love.
Melody read the words aloud, smiling as she read. "Susan," she said,
"I wonder who wrote your verses. I wonder if you were pretty, dear,
and if you liked to be alive, and were sorry to be dead. But you must
be used to it by this time, anyhow. I wonder if you 'shout redeeming
love,' like your cousin (I suppose she is your cousin) Sophia Dyer,
over in the corner there. I never liked Sophia, Susan dear. I seem to
think she shouted here too, and snubbed you, because you were gentle
and shy. See how her stone perks up, making every inch it can of
itself, while yours tries to sink away and hide itself in the good
green grass.
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