tial heard the hymn that rose from those that
were saved, and above all the voices, the small sweet silvery voice of
her whose eyes alone were worthy of beholding a Saint Transfigured.

For several hundred years has that farm belonged to the family of the
Logans, nor has son or daughter ever stained the name--while some have
imparted to it, in its humble annals, what well may be called lustre.
Many a time have we stood when a boy, all alone, beginning to be
disturbed by the record of heroic or holy lives, in the kirkyard, beside
the GRAVE OF THE MARTYRS--the grave in which Christian and Hannah Logan,
mother and daughter, were interred. Many a time have we listened to the
story of their deaths, from the lips of one who well knew how to stir
the hearts of the young, till "from their eyes they wiped the tears that
sacred pity had engendered." Nearly a hundred years old was she that
eloquent narrator--the Minister's mother--yet she could hear a whisper,
and read the Bible without spectacles--although we sometimes used to
suspect her of pretending to be reading off the Book, when, in fact, she
was reciting from memory. The old lady often took a walk in the
kirkyard--and being of a pleasant and cheerful nature, though in
religious principle inflexibly austere, many were the most amusing
anecdotes that she related to us and our compeers, all huddled round
her, "where heaved the turf in many a mouldering heap." But the evening
converse was always sure to have a serious termination--and the
venerable matron could not be more willing to tell, than we to hear
again and again, were it for the twentieth repetition, some old tragic
event that gathered a deeper interest from every recital, as if on each
we became better acquainted with the characters of those to whom it had
befallen, till the chasm that time had dug between them and us
disappeared, and we felt for the while that their happiness or misery
and ours were essentially interdependent. At first she used, we well
remember, to fix her solemn spirit-like eyes on our faces, to mark the
different effects her story produced on her hearers; but ere long she
became possessed wholly by the pathos of her own narrative, and with
fluctuating features and earnest action of head and hands poured forth
her eloquence, as if soliloquising among the tombs.

"Ay, ay, my dear boys, that is the grave o' the Martyrs. My father saw
them die. The tide o' the far-ebbed sea was again beginning to flo