The whole party were soon gathered round the stone, by which Helen was standing: on it was engraven a short account of a remarkable person, named Phœbe Hessel. It relates that she was born at Stepney, in the year 1713, and served for many years as a private soldier in the fifth regiment of foot, in different parts of Europe. In 1745, she fought under the command of the Duke of Cumberland, at Fontenoy, where she received a bayonet wound in her arm. Her long life, which commenced in Queen Ann’s reign, extended to that of George the Fourth; from whose bounty she received comfort and support in her latter years. She died at Brighton, where she had long resided, December 12, 1821, at the advanced age of one hundred and eight years. “Dear uncle,” said Helen, “what an extraordinary character! I do not think I could have loved a woman who had been thus employed in the destruction of her fellow-creatures. The epitaph does not tell us that she had any particular object in view in entering the army; such as seeking shelter and disguise for a time; or, that she did it from a sense of duty, like Joan of Arc.” “Whatever were the motives to such a line of conduct, my love,” replied her uncle, “it is indeed to be lamented, that one, who doubtless possessed strength of mind in no common degree, should be so misguided as thus to misapply her time and talents, which might have been rendered eminently useful, if dedicated to His service, who is emphatically styled ‘The Prince of Peace.’ But let us hope, that in the latter years of her lengthened existence she was permitted to see the error of her ways, and to enlist under His banner; becoming a Christian, not merely in name, but in practice also.” The children listened attentively to Mr. Ashton’s remarks; and he took the opportunity of pointing out to them how instructive a lesson the prospect of so many silent abodes of the dead may afford. “See, my children,” he said, “what becomes of all the wisdom, riches, and beauty of man, when his crumbling ashes unite with their parent dust, and all distinctions of rank and excellence are lost in that one common lot—the grave. Oh! then, may we never live as though this world were our home, instead of what it is designed to be, a preparation for a better, a more enduring inheritance!” “Look, dear mamma,” said Edward, “there is the new-made grave of a little child.” “Yes, my love,” said Mrs. Ashton, “I believe I need not tell you what that should teach us.” Edward pressed his mother’s hand, in token of assent. “Aunt,” said Helen, “I learned some pretty lines of poetry, the other day, which were inscribed on an infant’s tomb.” “Will you repeat them, my love?” asked Mrs. Ashton. Helen did so.