He once asked her for the key to the fruit-garden, when my parents were both out; but Mammy stedfastly refused him.  “She had orders,” she said, “not to let the key go out of her possession, and she didn’t intend to now.”  The wandering clergyman departed quite enraged; and reported proceedings as soon as my father returned.  He was very much displeased at Mammy’s obstinacy, and spoke quite warmly on the subject; but the old nurse replied that “she didn’t know but he might make off with half the fruit in the garden—­she didn’t like the man’s looks at any rate.”

I had then in my possession a little morocco pocket-book, a treasured article, which I valued above all my other worldly goods.  Sometime before Christmas, I had observed it in a a shop-window with passionate admiration; and on my return home, I threw out various hints and inuendoes—­scarcely hoping that they would be attended to.  They were, however; for on examining my stocking on the eventful morning, the long-coveted pocket-book was found sticking in the toe—­and what was still better, well supplied with contents.  I was in ecstasy for sometime after; but wishing to do something to signalize myself, I now placed it in the hands of the Rev. Mr. Motley for safe keeping.

“Mark my words,” said Mammy prophetically, “you’ll never see a sign of that pocket-book again.”

Alas! her words were but too true; circumstances came to light not very favorable to the character of our visitor; and that very night the Rev. Mr. Motley secretly decamped—­mentioning in a note left behind, that unlooked-for events had hastened his departure.  My little pocket-book accompanied him, as he quite forgot to return it; and Mammy’s triumph was almost as provoking as the loss.  She had, however, with characteristic caution, abstracted whatever money it contained; and the reflection that the reverend gentleman had not gained much, gave her considerable pleasure.  The lesson taught me not to trust strangers again too readily, and my father imbibed somewhat of a prejudice against travelling clergymen in distress.  Rev. Mr. Motley was never again heard of.

We once had a visit from a Captain Vardell, an acquaintance of my father’s, who had married a Spanish woman.  This Captain had spent much of his time at sea; roving about from place to place, until at length he settled down for some years in Spain.  He had no relations in America, and but little money, so that of course my father’s house, the usual refuge of the needy and distressed, was at once his destination.  He appeared to us an indolent, good-natured kind of a man, and his wife resembled him in the former quality, though quite deficient in the latter.  She could not speak a word of English, and would scold and rail at her husband in Spanish for hours together.  We did not understand what she said, but we knew, by the flashing of those great black eyes and her animated gestures, that her words were not words of love.  She was a large woman, with straight, black