through the trees. I declare, I believe – "
Preston had been out in his reckoning, and a second time had brought me where he did not wish to bring me. We came presently to an open place, or rather a place where the pines stood a little apart; and there in the midst was a small enclosure. A low brick wall surrounded a square bit of ground, with an iron gate on one side of the square; within, the grassy plot was spotted with the white marble of tombstones. There were large and small. Overhead, the great pine trees stood and waved their long branches gently in the wind. The place was lonely and lovely. We had come, as Preston guessed, to the river, and the shore was here high; so that we looked down upon the dark little stream far below us. The sunlight, getting low by this time, hardly touched it; but streamed through the pine trees and over the grass, and gilded the white marble with gold.
"I did not mean to bring you here," said Preston, "I did not know I was bringing you here. Come, Daisy – we'll go and try again."
"Oh stop!" I said – "I like it. I want to look at it."
"It is the cemetery," said Preston. "That tall column is the monument of our great – no, of our great-great-grandfather; and this brown one is for mamma's father. Come, Daisy! – "
"Wait a little," I said. "Whose is that with the vase on top?"
"Vase?" said Preston – "it's an urn. It is an urn, Daisy. People do not put vases on tombstones."
I asked what the difference was.
"The difference? O Daisy, Daisy! Why vases are to put flowers in; and urns – I'll tell you, Daisy, – I believe it is because the Romans used to burn the bodies of their friends and gather up the ashes and keep them in a funeral urn. So an urn comes to be appropriate to a tombstone."
"I do not see how," I said.
"Why because an urn comes to be an emblem of mortality and all that. Come, Daisy; let us go."
"I think a vase of flowers would be a great deal nicer," I said. "We do not keep the ashes of our friends."
"We don't put signs of joy over their graves either," said Preston.
"I should think we might," I said meditatively. "When people have gone to Jesus – they must be very glad!"
Preston burst out with an expression of hope that Miss Pinshon would "do something" for me; and again would have led me away; but I was not ready to go. My eye, roving beyond the white marble and the low brick wall, had caught what seemed to be a number of meaner monuments, scattered among the pine trees and spreading down the slope of the ground on the further side, where it fell off towards another dell. In one place a bit of board was set up; further on a cross; then I saw a great many bits of board and crosses; some more and some less carefully made; and still as my eye roved about over the ground they seemed to start up to view in every direction; too low and too humble and too near the colour of the fallen pine leaves to make much show unless they were looked for. I asked what they all were.
"Those? Oh, those are for the people, you know."
"The people?" I repeated.
"Yes, the people – the hands."
"There are a great many of them," I remarked.
"Of course," said Preston. "You see, Daisy, there have been I don't know how many hundreds of hands here for a great many years, ever since mother's grandfather's time."
"I should think," said I, looking at the little board slips and crosses among the pine cones on the ground, – "I should think they would like to have something nicer to put up over their graves."
"Nicer? those are good enough," said Preston. "Good enough for them."
"I should think they would like to have something better," I said. "Poor people at the North have nicer monuments, I know. I never saw such monuments in my life."
"Poor people!" cried Preston. "Why these are the hands, Daisy, – the coloured people. What do they want of monuments?"
"Don't they care?" said I, wondering.
"Who cares if they care? I don't know whether they care," said Preston, quite out of patience with me, I thought.
"Only, if they cared, I should think they would have something nicer," I said. "Where do they all go to church, Preston?"
"Who?" said Preston.
"These people?"
"What people? The families along the river do you mean?"
"No, no," said I; "I mean our people – these people; the hands. You say there are hundreds of them. Where do they go to church?"
I faced Preston now in my eagerness; for the little board crosses and the forlorn look of the whole burying-ground on the side of the hill had given me a strange feeling. "Where do they go to church, Preston!"
"Nowhere, I reckon."
I was shocked, and Preston was impatient. How should he know, he said; he did not live at Magnolia. And he carried me off. We went back to the avenue and slowly bent our steps again towards the house; slowly, for I was tired, and we both, I think, were busy with our thoughts. Presently I saw a man, a negro, come into the avenue a little before us with a bundle of tools on his back. He went as slowly as we, with an indescribable, purposeless gait. His figure had the same look too, from his lop-sided old white hat to every fold of his clothing, which seemed to hang about him just as it would as lieve be off as on. I begged Preston to hail him and ask him the question about church going, which sorely troubled me. Preston was unwilling and resisted.
"What do you want me to do that for, Daisy?"
"Because Aunt Gary told Miss Pinshon that we have to drive six miles to go to church. Do ask him where they go!"
"They don't go anywhere, Daisy," said Preston, impatiently; "they don't care a straw about it, either. All the church they care about is when they get together in somebody's house and make a great muss."
"Make a muss!" said I.
"Yes; a regular muss; shouting and crying and having what they call a good time. That's what some of them do; but I'll wager if I were to ask him about going to church, this fellow here would not know what I mean."
This did by no means quiet me. I insisted that Preston should stop the man; and at last he did. The fellow turned and came back towards us, ducking his old white hat. His face was just like the rest of him; there was no expression in it but an expression of limp submissiveness.
"Sambo, your mistress wants to speak to you."
"Yes, massa. I's George, massa."
"George," said I, "I want to know where you go to church?"
"Yes, missis. What missis want to know?"
"Where do you and all the rest go to church?"
"Reckon don't go nowhar, missis."
"Don't you ever go to church?"
"Church for white folks, missis; bery far; long ways to ride."
"But you and the rest of the people – don't you go anywhere to church? to hear preaching?"
"Reckon
