When my uncle saw me sitting on the stile, and heard me pronounce my mother’s name, he looked earnestly in my face, and began to fancy a resemblance to his sister, and to think I might be her child.  I was too intent on my employment to observe him, and went spelling on.  “Who has taught you to spell so prettily, my little maid?” said my uncle.  “Mamma,” I replied; for I had an idea that the words on the tombstone were somehow a part of mamma, and that she had taught me.  “And who is mamma?” asked my uncle.  “Elizabeth Villiers,” I replied; and then my uncle called me his dear little niece, and said he would go with me to mamma:  he took hold of my hand, intending to lead me home, delighted that he had found out who I was, because he imagined it would be such a pleasant surprise to his sister to see her little daughter bringing home her long lost sailor uncle.

I agreed to take him to mamma, but we had a dispute about the way thither.  My uncle was for going along the road which led directly up to our house; I pointed to the church-yard, and said, that was the way to mamma.  Though impatient of any delay, he was not willing to contest the point with his new relation, therefore he lifted me over the stile, and was then going to take me along the path to a gate he knew was at the end of our garden; but no, I would not go that way neither:  letting go his hand, I said, “You do not know the way—­I will shew you:”  and making what haste I could among the long grass and thistles, and jumping over the low graves, he said, as he followed what he called my wayward steps, “What a positive soul this little niece of mine is!  I knew the way to your mother’s house before you were born, child.”  At last I stopped at my mother’s grave, and, pointing to the tombstone, said, “Here is mamma,” in a voice of exultation, as if I had now convinced him that I knew the way best:  I looked up in his face to see him acknowledge his mistake; but Oh, what a face of sorrow did I see!  I was so frightened, that I have but an imperfect recollection of what followed.  I remember I pulled his coat, and cried “Sir, sir,” and tried to move him.  I knew not what to do; my mind was in a strange confusion; I thought I had done something wrong in bringing the gentleman to mamma to make him cry so sadly; but what it was I could not tell.  This grave had always been a scene of delight to me.  In the house my father would often be weary of my prattle, and send me from him; but here he was all my own.  I might say anything and be as frolicsome as I pleased here; all was chearfulness and good humour in our visits to mamma, as we called it.  My father would tell me how quietly mamma slept there, and that he and his little Betsy would one day sleep beside mamma in that grave; and when I went to bed, as I laid my little head on the pillow, I used to wish I was sleeping in the grave with my papa and mamma; and in my childish dreams I used to fancy myself there, and it was a place within the ground, all smooth, and soft, and green.  I never made out any figure of mamma, but still it was the tombstone, and papa, and the smooth green grass, and my head resting upon the elbow of my father.