Accordingly, early next morning, Alfred
Gray was riding briskly along through the
pleasant green lanes which led toward his
native village. It was the middle of June,
bright, warm, sunny weather; and the young
man's spirits were unusually gay, everything
around him tending to heighten the
delight which the good news he carried had
inspired him with. The pony stepped out
bravely, and was only checked when Alfred
came in sight of the dear old home of his
childhood, and heard the well-known chimes
calling the villagers to their morning service,
for it was Sunday. Then for a few moments
the young man proceeded more slowly,
and his countenance wore a more saddened
look, as the blessed recollections of early loves
and affections, with which the scene was
associated in his mind, claimed their power
over all other thoughts. The voice of an old
friend from an apple orchard hard by, recalled
him from his reveries.

He shook hands through the hedge. "I
will come and see you in the evening, Fred.
I must hasten on now. She will go to church
this morning, and I must go with her."

"Who?" asked the other.

Alfred pointed to the cottage where Susan
Harvey dwelt. "I bring her good news—I
have a letter. Martin is living and well."

The friend shook his head.

Alfred dismounted, and walked towards
Susan Harvey's cottage. The door was closed,
and when he looked through the window he
could see no one inside. He lifted the latch
softly, and entered. There was no one there;
but his entrance had been heard, and a
moment after, a fine stout lad came out of the
inner chamber, took Alfred's proffered hand,
and in answer to his inquiries, burst into
tears.

"She says she cannot live long, sir; but
she told me last night, that before she died,
you would come and tell us news of father.
She has been saying all the past week that we
should hear from him soon."

Whilst the boy spoke, Alfred heard a weak
voice, calling his name from the inner room.

"Go in," he said, "and tell her I am here."

The boy did so, and then beckoned him to
enter.

Susan's submissive features were but little
changed, from the time when her husband was
taken from her; but the weak and wasted form
that strove to raise itself in vain, as Alfred
approached the bed-side, too plainly revealed
that the struggle was drawing to a close—that
the time of rest was at hand.

"Thank God, you are come," she said; "you
have heard from him? Tell me quickly, for
my time is short."

"I come to tell you good news, Susan. You
may yet be restored to him."

"I shall not see Martin in this world again,
Mr. Gray; but I shall close my eyes in
peace. If you know where he is, and can
tell me that my boy shall go, and be with him,
and tell him how, through these long weary
years, we loved him, and thought of him, and
prayed for him—" Here she broke off, and
beckoned the boy to her. She held his hands
within her own, whilst Alfred Gray read
from the letter all that would comfort her.

When he had done, she said, "God will bless
you: you have been very good to us in our
misery. Now, will you promise me one thing
more? Will you send my boy to his father,
when I am gone?"

The promise was made, and the boy knelt
long by her bed-side, listening to the words of
love and consolation which, with her latest
breath, she uttered for the sake of him who,
she hoped, would hear them again from his
child's lips.

Nearly forty years have passed since they
laid her among the graves of the humble
villagers of Uffculme. 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 churchyard,—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.