But The Old Man's Grandson, Holding His Pretty Child On His Shoulder, And Looking Across The Valley To His Pleasant Dwelling, Says, "Oh, It Was Cruel To Send Them Away From Their Homes!" To Which All Earnestly Assent.

Clambering up the hill back of the old house, we come upon the site of an ancient French church, and commend the taste of those who chose such an admirable location.

Here we find, to our delight, that local tradition has buried two fine old bells. Bells! What a charm there is about them! One of the earliest recollections of our childhood is of a bell, which, being harsh and dissonant, so worked upon our youthful sensibilities as to cause paroxysms of tears; and now in these later years we are sure that should some genie set us down blindfolded in any place where we had ever remained for a time the mere tones of the bells would enlighten us as to our whereabouts.

"Those evening bells! Those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells, Of youth and home and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime."

After the Port Royal settlement was broken up by Argall in 1613, tradition says this church crumbled away into ruin, and, as the supporting beams decayed, the bells sank to the ground, where, from their own weight and the accumulations of Nature's débris they became more and more deeply embedded until lost to view. Silver bells, from France, they say.

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