Little Elizabeth came, as promised, in September, on the very day that would have been Ilse and Perry's wedding day. Would have been! They were an established old couple by now. Somehow it seemed as if they had been married longer than Emily and Teddy! Ilse had done wonders with the little cottage, though the old spinsters of the neighborhood were scandalised by the décor. Ilse had papered the entire parlor with a pattern that looked like peacock feathers, and the dining room with a pattern of bright-pink conch shells. It was bright and cheerful and a little bit off-kilter, like Ilse herself.

Emily wondered how brash, saucy Ilse and shy, sweet Little Elizabeth would get along. At first they were wary of one another, like two cats. But they soon fell to liking one another. Little Elizabeth was amazed by Ilse and all of her charms and Ilse admitted that she "wasn't bad." What bothered Emily more was that Ilse was rather courteous around Little Elizabeth. She never flew into her tempers when Elizabeth was around.

"She's rather nice to sit and talk with--when I feel like sitting and talking," said Ilse. "But Emily--you must promise not to like her better than me. I'll cut my eyes out if you do. I-I'll--"

"Enough!" Emily laughed. "I don't like her better than you. I like Little Elizabeth as much as you--in an entirely different way. I like her because she is her, and you because you're you."

Evensong was really too small for them to have houseguests, but no matter--Little Elizabeth was content to stay at New Moon, which was only a short walk away, in Emily's old room. She got along famously and immediately with the folks there. Aunt Laura adored her from the start, and Cousin Jimmy, too--he even recited part of his epic for her. But it was between Aunt Elizabeth and Little Elizabeth that a true alliance was formed. Neither could explain it, but there it was. They washed the supper dishes together, giggling as if they were not separated in age by forty years. They sat on the porch and knit during the day. At night Little Elizabeth gave Aunt Elizabeth a kiss on her old wrinkled cheek before going out with Emily for the night--and waved back at her through the window from the lane.

"She's a duck," Little Elizabeth pronounced.

In fact, everyone liked Little Elizabeth so much that they were very sorry when her visit drew to a close--even Ilse was sorry.

"You can't go, you little whelp," she said hotly when Little Elizabeth made plans for her departure.

Which showed the Ilse had grown to like her very much, indeed.

* * *

"I love a graveyard by moonlight," said Emily as they walked along in the old Murray resting place, the night before Little Elizabeth's departure.

Little Elizabeth shivered. "I like so many things by moonlight--I don't yet know if a graveyard is one of them. I think I like them better by day. You'll call me a baby, I know, Emily, but I'm spooked."

"Don't be, dearest," said Emily, with a laugh. "These people that rest here are my blood--and they're living right now, through me. They laugh at my jokes, and cry over my heartaches. I do believe that they love whom I love. So you have no need to be spooked, Little Elizabeth, because I love you."

"And I love you," said Elizabeth, linking her arm through Emily's. "Aren't you lucky to have a family graveyard? Where you can sleep for all eternity surrounded by those you love--with dear little kidlets like us wandering through it that are your great-great grandchildren. 'I wonder what Great-Grandmother Emily was like her day,' they will say. 'I wonder what she would be doing if she were with us right now.' Father and I will stop where we drop, I suppose. There aren't enough of us to fill even a corner of this yard."

"I'm not going to be buried here," said Emily, a bit regretfully. "There is only enough room for Aunt Laura and Elizabeth, and Cousin Jimmy. But I don't mind--much. I'm to be buried with Mother and Father, and Father's people. They're much more--Oops!"

Emily, who had been wandering in the far corner, the oldest part of the old graveyard, suddenly caught the toe of her boot on a tree root hidden under the earth and pitched forward. Little Elizabeth, who was still holding her arm, tumbled down, too.

"Oh!" said Emily, as a sharp pain went up her leg. "I've twisted my ankle. Help me up, Little Elizabeth--if I can't manage it back to the house, you'll have to go for Teddy."

Little Elizabeth tried to pull her up, but Emily's boot was caught on something. The two girls scraped at the earth with their hands to find the stubborn culprit. Instead of hitting the familiar snarl of a tree branch, Emily's fingers brushed against cool, hard granite.

"Why--it looks like there's a grave here," she said.

She brushed more of the earth away to reveal a small stone, one that she had never seen before--it had never been mentioned that there was another grave here.

"In Memory only of Charlotte Murray, who is Lost," read Little Elizabeth. "Why--what does that mean--'in memory only?' It's a strange way of putting it. And why was she lost? Who was she, Emily?"

"I have no idea," said Emily. "Aunt Elizabeth will know, though--she knows everything about the Murrays. I think I can walk--let's go back to the house and find out!"

* * *

"Charlotte Murray?" said Aunt Elizabeth. "I don't think I've ever heard of a Charlotte Murray before. You say you found this grave in our graveyard? Could it be another family of Murrays?"

"That would be quite a coincidence, if it were," said Aunt Laura. "I'll get the Family Bible and we can look her up."

"In Memory only of Charlotte Murray, who is Lost," quoted Uncle Jimmy softly. 'Well, I'll be. It's a mystery. I'll be."

Aunt Laura set the big family Bible on the table, and she and Emily and Elizabeth crowded around it eagerly. The last entry in the Genealogy section was the news of Emily's birth. Emily Byrd Starr, born May 19, 1888, it read. The ink was just beginning to fade. Emily felt a strange pricking at the back of her neck. Who had written that, when they had gotten the news of her birth? Was it Aunt Elizabeth? It wasn't her writing, or Aunt Laura's. Perhaps Grandfather Hugh Murray had been the one who received a letter about the baby granddaughter he would never see--perhaps it was he who had written her name in the book in a big, black scrawl. Next to it, Aunt Elizabeth had written in an incongruously neat hand, married May 10, 1915, to Frederick Kent, New Moon, PEI. Her whole history was in that book. How strange to be the last in a long line of ancestors!

"There is no Charlotte Murray," said Aunt Elizabeth, studying the register. "Or if there was, there is no record of her now."