"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 in the entry, illuminated by his perpetual cigar. As I eyed him rather impatiently, remembering that trains wait for no man, something like a hairy dog, or a bundle of rags, rose up at his feet, and barred his passage for a moment. Then Balance cried out with an exclamation, in answer apparently to a something I could not hear, "What, man alive!—slept in the passage!—there, take that, and get some breakfast, for Heaven's sake!" So saying, he jumped into the "Hansom," and we bowled away at ten miles an hour, just catching the Express as the doors of the station were closing. My curiosity was full set—for although Balance can be free with his money, it is not exactly to beggars that his generosity is usually displayed; so when comfortably ensconced in a coupé I finished with—
"You are liberal with your money this morning; pray, how often do you give silver to street-cadgers?—because I shall know now what walk to take when flats and sharps leave off buying law."