hard
by. There were too many who might have known me. I sat down in the quiet
church-yard where my wife had slept many a long year. I sat by a little
mound on which a wreath of flowers had been laid--nothing remained of them
but stems and the rotting string that had bound them. It had a peaceful
look, the grave, and I wished that I had died when my mound would not have
been made longer than the one at my side. What did the simple head-stone
say? It said: 'LITTLE BELL!'--that was all!"

The sailor grasped Flint's arm.

"Only little Bell!--that was all. But it was all the world to me! What a
tale it told! What a tale of weary waiting, and despair, and death! Did
her little heart wait for me! Did she sicken and die when I did not come to
her? Aye, it said all this and more. And my boy--was he living? was he
searching for me? No, not searching, for close by my child's grave, a white
stone had these words carved on it:" and the man repeated them slowly,

SACRED
TO THE MEMORY
OF
OUR FATHER,
LOST AT SEA.

"Not lost at sea," he said, almost inaudibly, "but lost! Ah, I could have
died in that quiet place, with the moonlight on me! But I was startled from
my grief by the shouts of some men on the roadside, and I turned and fled.
Have you looked at the picture, John Flint?"

He spoke so mournfully, that Flint raised his little, sharp eyes, which all
this time had been fixed on the carpet; but he made no reply.

"I'll have none of your gold, man. I was weak to want it. Give it to the
poor. The shining round pieces may fall like sunlight into some wretched
home. To me they are like drops of blood!"

And he pushed the gold from him, and went to the window. He saw the dim
eyes of Heaven looking down through the mist--heard the murmurs of the city
dying away, and the calm of night entered his soul.

"May you be a better man when we meet again," he said, turning to Flint.

"But the letter," cried Flint, fearfully, "you won't----"

The sailor's lips curled, and something of his former severity returned.

"Take off your sanctimonious cravat," he answered, "wrap charity around you
like a robe, that you may be pleasing in God's sight. You sent some gold to
convert the Hindoos--the papers said so. Why, man! there is a Heathen Land
at your door-step! John Flint, good night!"

The merchant stood alone.

The night wind swayed the heavy curtains to and fro, and half extinguished
the brilliant jets of gas. He threw him