<p>CALISTA STANFIELD stood at the gate of the old Stanfield place one morning in the latter end of May, looking abroad over the fields. The house stood on a little rise of ground such as in that part of the world is dignified by the name of a hill. The foreground of the picture on which she was looking was not very cheerful in itself, being neither more nor less than an old family burying-ground, very full of gravestones, and with one tall monume...