Nearly forty years have passed since they laid her among the graves of the humble villagers of Uffeulme.  Few remain now who remember her story or her name—­but, on the other side of the world, amid scenery all unlike to that in which she dwelt, there stands a cheerful settler’s home, and under the shadow of tall acacia trees which surround the little garden in which some few English flowers are blooming, there are sitting, in the cool of the summer evening, a group whose faces are all of the Anglo-Saxon mould.  A happy looking couple, in the prime of life, are there, with children playing around them; and one little gentle girl, they call Susan, is sitting on the knee of an aged, white-haired man, looking lovingly into his face, and wondering why his eye so watches the setting sun every night, as it sinks behind the blue waters in the distance.  Two tall, handsome lads, with guns on their shoulders, enter the garden, and hasten to show the old man the fruits of their day’s exploits.

“We have been lucky to-day, grandfather,” says the younger; “but Alfred says these birds are not like the birds in old England.”

“You should hear the sailors talk about the game in England, Martin,” replies the brother.

“Grandfather has told us all about England, except the ‘birds.’  He thinks we should run away, if he were to describe them.”

The old man looks steadily at the boys for a moment, and his eyes fill with tears.  “It is a glorious land,” he says, with a faltering voice; “it is our country; but, Alfred, Martin, you will never leave this happy home to go there.  Birds there are the rich man’s property, and you would not dare carry those guns of yours over English ground.  If ever you go there, your father will tell you where there is a church-yard—­and among the graves of the poor, there is one—­”

He stopped, for Edward Harvey came to the place where his father sat, and took his trembling hand within his own; the boys obeyed their mother’s signal, and followed her into the house; the two men remained sitting together, until the silent stars came out.

Then the aged man, leaning on his son’s arm, rejoined the family at the supper-table—­and the peace of God rested on the solitary home.  Edward Harvey had faithfully kept within his heart, the memory of his mother’s dying commands.

Martin, his father, had nobly effaced the one Black Spot.

THE GENTLEMAN BEGGAR.

One morning, about five years ago, I called by appointment on Mr. John Balance, the fashionable pawnbroker, to accompany him to Liverpool, in pursuit of a Levanting customer—­for Balance, in addition to pawning, does a little business in the sixty per cent. line.  It rained in torrents when the cab stopped at the passage which leads past the pawning-boxes to his private door.  The cabman rang twice, and at length Balance appeared, looming through the mist and rain