CALISTA STANFIELD stood at the gate of the old Stanfield place one morning in the latter end of May, looking abroad over the fields. The house stood on a little rise of ground such as in that part of the world is dignified by the name of a hill. The foreground of the picture on which she was looking was not very cheerful in itself, being neither more nor less than an old family burying-ground, very full of gravestones, and with one tall monument towering over all. Now an old graveyard need not be a melancholy sight, provided that the grass be kept green, the stones whole, and the enclosure free from ugly weeds. That on which Calista was looking bore traces of utter neglect. Beyond the graveyard spread fenced fields, some in pasture, others in the carefully-marked squares which showed that they were meant for sweet potatoes, or were tinted with the pale green blades of the springing corn. Low-growing oaks, with here and there a large tree, closed is the prospect.