North Point, where Freda lived, was the bleakest settlement in the
world. Even its inhabitants, who loved it, had to admit that. The
northeast winds swept whistling up the bay and blew rawly over the
long hill that sloped down to it, blighting everything that was in
their way. Only the sturdy firs and spruces could hold their own
against it. So there were no orchards or groves or flower gardens in
North Point.
Just over the hill, in a sheltered southwest valley, was the North
Point church with the graveyard behind it, and this graveyard was the
most beautiful spot in North Point or near it. The North Point folk
loved flowers. They could not have them about their homes, so they had
them in their graveyard. It was a matter of pride with each family to
keep the separate plot neatly trimmed and weeded and adorned with
beautiful blossoms.
It was one of the unwritten laws of the little community that on some
selected day in May everybody would repair to the graveyard to plant,
trim and clip. It was not an unpleasant duty, even to those whose
sorrow was fresh. It seemed as if they were still doing something for
the friends who had gone when they made their earthly resting places
beautiful.
As for the children, they looked forward to "Graveyard Day" as a very
delightful anniversary, and it divided its spring honours with the
amount of the herring catch.
"Tomorrow is Graveyard Day," said Minnie Hutchinson at school recess,
when all the little girls were sitting on the fence. "Ain't I glad!
I've got the loveliest big white rosebush to plant by Grandma
Hutchinson's grave. Uncle Robert sent it out from town."
"My mother has ten tuberoses to set out," said Nan Gray proudly.
"We're going to plant a row of lilies right around our plot," said
Katie Morris.
Every little girl had some boast to make, that is, every little girl
but Freda. Freda sat in a corner all by herself and felt miserably
outside of everything. She had no part or lot in Graveyard Day.
"Are you going to plant anything, Freda?" asked Nan, with a wink at
the others.
Freda shook her head mutely.
"Freda can't plant anything," said Winnie Bell cruelly, although she
did not mean to be cruel. "She hasn't got a grave."
Just then Freda felt as if her gravelessness were a positive disgrace
and crime, as if not to have an interest in a single grave in North
Point cemetery branded you as an outcast forever and ever. It very
nearly did in North Point. The other little girls pitied Freda, but at
the same time they rather looked down upon her for it with the
complacency of those who had been born into a good heritage of family
graves and had an undisputed right to celebrate Graveyard Day.
Freda felt that her cup of wretchedness was full. She sat miserably on
the fence while the other girls ran off to play, and she walked home
alone at night. It seemed to her that she could _not_ bear it any
longer.
Freda was ten years old. Four years ago Mrs. Wilson had taken her from
the orphan asylum in town. Mrs. Wilson lived just this side of the
hill from the graveyard, and everybody in North Point called her a
"crank." They pitied any child she took, they said. It would be worked
to death and treated like a slave. At first they tried to pump Freda
concerning Mrs. Wilson's treatment of her, but Freda was not to be
pumped. She was a quiet little mite, with big, wistful dark eyes that
had a disconcerting fashion of looking the gossips out of countenance.
But if Freda had been disposed to complain, the North Point people
would have found out that they had been only too correct in their
predictions.
"Mrs. Wilson," Freda said timidly that night, "why haven't we got a
grave?"