Before that church was built there came from the West Indies, following the fortunes of an exiled family, a gray-haired negro. He did not persevere in hearing Mass because the children insulted him on the street--waited for him with stones in their hands at the corners of the church. He died, and, to fulfil his last wish, some of his people planted a cross upon his unsodded grave. I used to know every mound, from that Egyptian-faced vault, "Against whose portal I had thrown, In childhood, many an echoing stone; And shrank to think, poor heart of sin, It was the dead that groaned within;" to the cheerful nook where the nurseryman's children sleep under their coverlet of flowers. From the hero's pillar by the highway, with the record, "He lived as mothers wish their sons to live, He died as fathers wish their sons to die," to the monument of the beloved woman whose husband and daughters came every year from distant homes to add a tribute of plants and garlands to the granite offering they had raised to her memory. Here, broken and half buried, is the old slab with death's-head and bones, and the verse exhorting all Christians to pray for the soul of Peter Curran. Under this willow--she that planted it, in the belief that it would shade her rest, lies far away--our patriarch is buried: a father to orphans; to the poor a brother. That memorial in the stranger's ground--the only one--he caused to be placed above the remains of the decayed gentleman he entertained so many years and laid to rest at his own cost. Another, to whom he gave shelter, lies beside "the chevalier." The droll Swede, the whaleman, is buried behind them both. In our village foreigners were not looked upon with favor in those ante-emigration times; and this one was so blundering that no one would give him work after his honesty was proved. They were going to send him to jail as a vagrant, when Uncle Allan made up his mind that he needed just such a man for odd jobs. Bastian never learned enough English to thank him, but the tears that wet his parchment cheeks the day they brought his benefactor here were expressive. Figures homely yet gracious, how they rise in memory! Some fell asleep in hope; others drew back in doubt, or struggled with doom. Some, having done their best, lay down, offering it and that wherein they had failed to God, beside others who had nothing to offer but remorse. All these yet speak to us, with more significance on this October afternoon in the October of our life than they did in past autumns; while to every one, according to his need, they teach a lesson. They say to the covetous, "Not one of your things shall pass through the gate of this city." To the envious, "Behold the state of him you wished to change places with yesterday." They promise those who are kept awake by care "a blessed sleep."