"
"Once when I was in Ireland," said the gentleman, "I was looking, near
sunset, at some curious old ruins. They were near a very poor little
village where I had to pass the night. There had been a little chapel or
church of some sort, but it had crumbled away; only bits of the walls
were standing, and in place of the floor there was nothing but grass and
weeds, and one or two monuments that had been under shelter of the roof.
One of them was a large square tomb in the middle of the place. It had
been very handsome. The top of it had held two statues, lying there with
hands upraised in prayer, in memory of those who slept beneath. But it
was so very old--the statues had been lying there so long since the roof
that sheltered them was gone, that they were worn away so that you could
only just see that they had been statues; you could just make out the
remains of what had been the heads and where the hands had been. It was
all rough and shapeless now." [Footnote A: See frontispiece.]
"What had worn the stone so?" asked Daisy.
"The weather--the heat and the cold, and the rain, and the dew.
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