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The factories and slums dropped away, and pleasant little houses on neat, green, postage-stamp lots took their place. Peering into the windows as the bus passed, Annie could imagine Hawkins lying abed in his small, shipshape bachelor’s quarters, once husky, now wan, his body ravished by disease.

“Is this where I get off?”

“A good ways, yet, ma’am. I’ll let you know.”

The small houses gave way to larger ones, and these gave way to mansions, the largest homes Annie had ever seen. She was the only passenger aboard now, awed by a new image of Hawkins, a dignified old gentleman with silver hair and a tiny mustache, languishing in a bed as big as her vegetable garden.

“Is this the neighborhood?” said Annie incredulously.

“Right along here somewhere.” The bus slowed, and the driver looked out at the house numbers. At the next corner, he stopped the bus and opened the door. “Somewhere in that block, lady. I was looking for it, but I guess I missed it.”

“Maybe it’s in the next block,” said Annie, who’d been watching too, with a quaking heart, as the house numbers came closer and closer to the one she knew so well.

“Nope. Got to be in this one. Nothing up ahead but a cemetery, and that goes for six blocks.”

Annie stepped out into the quiet, shaded street. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re certainly welcome,” said the driver. He started to close the door, but hesitated.

“You know how many people are dead in that cemetery up there?”

“I’m a stranger in town,” said Annie.

“All of ’em,” said the driver triumphantly. The door clattered shut, and the bus grumbled away.

An hour later, Annie had rung every doorbell and been barked at by every dog in the block.

No one had ever heard of Joseph P. Hawkins. Everyone agreed that, if there were such an address, it would be a tombstone in the next block.

Desolately, her big feet hurting, Annie trudged along the grass outside the iron-spiked cemetery fence. There were only stone angels to return her bewildered, searching gaze. She came at last to the stone arch that marked the cemetery entrance. Defeated, she sat down on her suitcase to wait for the next bus.

“Looking for somebody?” said a gruff voice behind her.

She turned to see a dwarfed old man standing under the cemetery arch. One eye was blind and white as a boiled egg, and the pupil of the other eye was bright and cunning, and roamed restlessly. He carried a shovel clotted with fresh earth.

“I—I’m looking for Mr. Hawkins,” said Annie. “Mr. Joseph P. Hawkins.” She stood, and tried to conceal her horror.

“Cemetery business?”

“He works here?”

“Did,” said the dwarf. “Dead now.”

“No!”

“Yep,” said the dwarf without feeling. “Buried this morning.”

Annie sank down, until she was seated on the suitcase again, and then she cried softly. “Too late, too late.”

“A friend of yours?”

“The dearest friend a woman ever had!” said Annie passionately, brokenly. “Did you know him?”

“Nope. They just put me on the job out here when he took sick. From what I hear, he was quite a gentleman, though.”

“He was, he was,” said Annie. She looked up at the old man, and contemplated his shovel uneasily. “Tell me,” she said, “He wasn’t a—a grave-digger, was he?”

“Landscape architect and memorial custodian.”

“Oh,” said Annie, smiling through her tears, “I’m so glad.” She shook her head. “Too late, too late. What can I do now?”

“I hear he liked flowers pretty well.”

“Yes,” said Annie, “he said they were the friends who always came back and never disappointed him. Where could I get some?”

“Well, it’s supposed to be against the law, but I guess maybe it’d be all right if you picked some of those crocuses inside the gate there, just as long as nobody saw you. And there are some violets over there by his house.”

“His house?” said Annie. “Where’s his house?”

The old man pointed through the arch to a small, squat stone building, matted with ivy.

“Oh—the poor man,” said Annie.

“It’s not so bad,” said the old man. “I live there now, and it’s all right. Come on. You get the flowers, and then I’ll drive you over to where he’s buried in the truck. It