I ought here, in common gratitude, to say something of the beauties of the Garden Isle. But, though some of the happiest hours of my life have been passed there, I grudge to dilate upon the theme. I could not, if I would, convey to a stranger a sense of the unutterable attachment which I feel for its swelling downs and curling seaward bays. Much of the charm of our old English scenery, which is fast disappearing elsewhere before the railway and the canal, is still to be met with in this sequestered island. Here are uncultivated rocky slopes, proffering rare wild-flowers; ivy-mantled cliffs and moss-grown brambles; bays which in winter witness the howling storm, and sometimes the fearful wreck, but in summer are invested with the calm beauty of a moonlit lake. The inhabitants also, many of them “aborigines,” have a primitive, unsophisticated character in the inland villages; while, on the coast, this is chequered by that roving disposition and semi-superstitious bent which are always to be found among sailors. Oddly enough, the story of a pebble illustrates this trait of character. Some years ago, I was calling on a lapidary in Sandown who had done a good deal work for me, and done it well. His account was settled, and I was wishing him good morning, when he drew my attention to a remarkably beautiful pebble, ready cut and polished, and begged my acceptance of it. Now the stone, displayed on his board along with other specimens, could not fail to sell; and was worth _to him_, I should say, perhaps a sovereign. I was very unwilling to take it, but there was no refusing without offending an old friend; so it went home in my pocket. But somehow curiosity was stirred in my mind when reflecting on the circumstance afterwards. Why should he wish to make me a present? Or, allowing for goodwill taking so straightforward a course, why part with a stone of so much moneyed value? A few days after I dropped in again. My friend was out: but I found his wife, and stayed for a chat. Presently I referred, quite cursorily, to the gift which her husband had made me, “and,” said I, “I wish only it had been something of less value.” The gentler sex are sometimes more communicative than their mates. “Ah! sir,” replied Mrs. ⸺, “there was reason for giving you _that_, may be. Anyways, I’m real glad that it’s gone from _us_.” “Indeed! how is that?” “Why, that stone was an unlucky stone for us, and I wished it to go, somehow.” Then I learned from her the following singular tale.