"Couldn't we fake up something for the old chap?" I queried. "He
seems a simple-minded old sort. He might take it in. Anyhow, we
could but try."
"By Jove, so we will," exclaimed my father; and the very next
morning we had the workmen in, and fixed up a little mound at the
bottom of the orchard with a tombstone over it, bearing the
following inscription:-
SACRED
TO THE MEMORY OF
EMILY
HER LAST WORDS WERE -
"TELL JOHNSON I LOVE HIM"
"That ought to fetch him," mused the Dad as he surveyed the work
when finished. "I am sure I hope it does."
It did!
We lured him down there that very night; and--well, there, it was
one of the most pathetic things I have ever seen, the way Johnson
sprang upon that tombstone and wept. Dad and old Squibbins, the
gardener, cried like children when they saw it.
Johnson has never troubled us any more in the house since then. It
spends every night now, sobbing on the grave, and seems quite
happy.
"There still?" Oh yes. I'll take you fellows down and show you
it, next time you come to our place: 10 p.m. to 4 a.m. are its
general hours, 10 to 2 on Saturdays.