dreamy eyes and a beautiful, sensitive face. He swung down and joined Anne, smiling; but there were traces of tears on his cheeks.
“I thought I’d wait for you, teacher, because I knew you were going to the graveyard,” he said, slipping his hand into hers. “I’m going there, too . . . I’m taking this bouquet of geraniums to put on Grandpa Irving’s grave for grandma. And look, teacher, I’m going to put this bunch of white roses beside Grandpa’s grave in memory of my little mother . . . because I can’t go to her grave to put it there. But don’t you think she’ll know all about it, just the same?”
“Yes, I am sure she will, Paul.”
“You see, teacher, it’s just three years to-day since my little mother died. It’s such a long, long time but it hurts just as much as ever . . . and I miss her just as much as ever. Sometimes it seems to me that I just can’t bear it, it hurts so.”
Paul’s voice quivered and his lip trembled. He looked down at his roses, hoping that his teacher would not notice the tears in his eyes.
“And yet,” said Anne, very softly, “you wouldn’t want it to stop hurting . . . you wouldn’t want to forget your little mother even if you could.”
“No, indeed, I wouldn’t . . . that’s just the way I feel. You’re so good at understanding, teacher. Nobody else understands so well . . . not even grandma, although she’s so good to me. Father understood pretty well, but still I couldn’t talk much to
