, with my
poor help, and having saved it, was quit of us both.

I pray the foreign earth may rest lightly on her.

THE JEW ON THE MOOR.

[The scene is the kitchen of a small farm-house above the Walkham
River, on the western edge of Dartmoor. The walls, originally of
rough granite, have had their asperities smoothed down by many layers
of whitewash. The floor is of lime-ash, nicely sanded. From the
ceiling--formed of rude, unplaned beams and the planching of the
bedroom above--depends a rack crowded with hams and sides of bacon,
all wrapped in newspapers. In the window a dozen geraniums are
blooming, and beyond them the eye rests on the slope of Sharpitor and
the distant ridge of Sheepstor. The fireplace, which faces the
window, is deep and capacious, and floored with granite slabs.
On these burns a fire of glowing peat, and over the fire hangs a
crock of milk in process of scalding. In the ingle behind it sits
the relator of this story, drying his knees after a Dartmoor shower.
From his seat he can look up the wide chimney and see, beyond the
smoke, the sky, and that it is blue again and shining. But he
listens to the farmer's middle-aged sister, who stands at the table
by the window, and rolls out a pie-crust as she talks. (The farmer
is a widower, and she keeps house for him.) She talks of a small
picture--a silhouette executed in black and gold--that adorns the
wall-space between the dresser and the tall clock, and directly above
the side-table piled with the small library of the house.
The portrait is a profile of a young man, somewhat noticeably
handsome, in a high-necked coat and white stock collar.]

'It is none of our family, though it came to us near on a hundred
years ago. It came from America. A young gentleman sent it over
from Philadelphia to my grandmother, with a letter to say he was
married and happy, and would always remember her. Perhaps he did;
and, again, perhaps he didn't. That was the last my grandmother
heard of him.

'But it wasn't made in America. It was made in the War Prison, over
yonder at Princetown, where they keep the convicts now. I've heard
the man that drew and cut it out was a French sergeant, with only one
arm. He had lost the other in the war, and his luck was to be left
until the very last draft. He finished it the morning he was
released, and he gave it to the young American--Adams, his name was--
for a keepsake. The Americans had to stay behind, beca