It had come with the thought of her grave that one day took her, less with fear, than of a new home to which she would presently be going.

In her fancy she had seen her name: "_Jenny Talbot, the beloved daughter of John and Jane Talbot, aged twenty-one years_" and it had struck her that the name was wrong.
Talbot?
that was not her name.

This was not the legend of her days.

The world would be all wrong about her if it only read that in after days.
No, her tomb could only bear one inscription--and what sweetness amid all the bitterness of death there was to say it over and over again to herself: "_Jenny Londonderry, the beloved wife of Theophilus Londonderry, aged twenty-one years_." Only twenty-one years--she thought of those who would perhaps some day stand and read those words and think "What a sad little life!"-- and yet all that mattered of life had been lived in those short years, aye, in two of them, and the violet breath of young love would come up to those who read from her young grave, as it would never breathe from the earth of long-wed, late-dying lovers.
Perhaps it was a beautiful chance for love to end like theirs; their love had never grown old, so it would remain forever young, a spring sign, a star in the front of love's year for ever.
Jenny spoke her wish to Theophil in the quiet of that night.

The wish had been in his heart too, and the wish was presently fulfilled.