The Child Who Loved a Grave

Far away in the deep heart of a lonely country there was an old
solitary churchyard. People were no longer buried there, for it had
fulfilled its mission long, long ago, and its rank grass now fed a few
vagrant goats that clambered over its ruined wall and roamed through
the sad wilderness of graves. It was bordered all round with willows
and gloomy cypresses; and the rusty iron gate, seldom if ever opened,
shrieked when the wind stirred it on its hinges as if some lost soul,
condemned to wander in that desolate place forever, was shaking its
bars and wailing at the terrible imprisonment.

In this churchyard there was one grave unlike all the rest. The stone
which stood at the head bore no name, but instead the curious device,
rudely sculptured of a sun uprising out of the sea.

The grave was very small and covered with a thick growth of dock and
nettle, and one might tell by its size that it was that of a little
child.