so Carl slept in his old cot, which was so short that he could never stretch out, and had strange bed-fellows. Perhaps it was just as well that Aunt Martha was half blind when she made that bed. Altogether they were a jolly, lovable little crew, and Cecilia Meredith's heart must have ached bitterly when she faced the knowledge that she must leave them.
"Where would you like to be buried if you were a Methodist?" asked Faith cheerfully.
This opened up an interesting field of speculation.
"There isn't much choice. The place is full," said Jerry. "I'd like that corner near the road, I guess. I could hear the teams going past and the people talking."
"I'd like that little hollow under the weeping birch," said Una. "That birch is such a place for birds and they sing like mad in the mornings."
"I'd take the Porter lot where there's so many children buried. I like lots of company," said Faith. "Carl, where'd you?"
"I'd rather not be buried at all," said Carl, "but if I had to be I'd like the ant-bed. Ants are awf'ly int'resting."
"How very good all the people who are buried here must have been," said Una, who had been reading the laudatory old epitaphs. "There doesn't seem to be a single bad person in the whole graveyard. Methodists must be better than Presbyterians after all."
"Maybe the Methodists bury their bad people just just like they do cats," suggested Carl. "Maybe they
