seen within his doors; tea was only kept in the house for the use of foreign lady-visitors-one quarter of a pound lasted for four years. The grocer's bill yearly was six dollars; two pounds of sugar was reckoned a liberal allowance for twelve months; very few other groceries were needed. From the chandler they required only stock-fish, salt, and herrings. But the large farm-yard, the garden, the bees, an abundant supply of fish, and various other resources, supplied the house with an affluent and ever-varied board; besides which, the bounty of the wealthier parishioners furnished many good things. Not a Sunday passed without some excellent joint of meat being brought; and, according to the old custom of the house, no one who brought a present went back empty-handed. Such were the manners and usages at a Deanery in Smaland half a century ago. "THE WORLD IS GOD'S WORLD, AFTER ALL." -(Rev. Chas. Kingsley.) Say'st thou the world is but a place God made the world, and thee for itHath He e'er made a thing unfit For life and its requirements? Lo! This mystery is shrouded so By human clouds, that we had best Dispel all doubtings from the breast Which fling o'er truth a darkening pall; Since this is God's world, after all! Each hath his secret source of care, Then let us wear, as best we may, With wholesome airs and cheerful light. O'er burning sands and hills of snow; That this is God's world, after all! CALDER CAMPBELL. PATIENCE. A silent angel stealeth Jehovah bade him come. For Patience is his name. The souls' most piercing woe. He boweth humbly low: Life's darkest night to moon; He doth not blame thy weeping If in the storm's wild raging Thou murm'ring askest why? To much that thou wouldst ask him Our rest before us lies!" SNOW. I stood gazing, from the window, And I felt that downy stillness To be more sublime Than the thunder, flakes like ages In the lapse of Time. S. Y. N. Not a doubt exists in the mind of any man present, but what the boat must have perished the instant that it put to sea, and for awhile mingled pity and horror tie every tongue; yet presently one or two see cause of hope, more particularly when the officer, mounting a jutting strip of rock, and using his glass, thinks he perceives a speck like the life-boat in the distant breakers. It is seen but for a minute-then it is buried deep within those mountains of icy water. "If any one can guide it in such a storm, it will be old Tom Lance," say some. "And Eddy Grey herself is more like a fish than a woman for water," say others; "many a strange tale is told along the coast of her venturesomeness." 66 dark. Descending into the shelter of a lowlying road, which runs parallel with the rocky cliff's at the distance of about half-a-mile from their edge, they plod on through wind and rain and mire, good Johnny Craftbox being assisted in his load by one of the coastguardsmen. Here and there, where the road rises to a level with the cliffs, and now and then when the mingled rain and arrowy sleet sweep less densely from the sea, there may be distinguished far ahead a light, as that of a fire kindled on the cliffs, and which lying opposite the Deadman's Rocks, those pressing onward know too well is one lit by some dastard wreckers. The officer speaks to his men, and the whole press onward still more rapidly. The lights of the humble parsonage are at "Well," says the oldest coastguardsman, length in view. It lies sheltered in a sudden "they're safe if they chance to catch one of the gorge of the rocks, with a little rustic lawn in lighthouse buoys!-though even then it mayn't front of it, between which and the church, and be possible to open any of the lighthouse port-church-yard sloping to the shore, winds the holes. In such case, and they're swept out to sea, God help 'em." The officer again turns his glass seaward; but the speck has vanished, as though it had never been. Breakers sweep over the light house, except for its utmost pinnacle; and clouds again gathering across the horizon, the abyss of waters is hidden, and nature's curtain drawn upon the awful scene. By the time they return to the cottage it is five o'clock. They find the kitchen fire glowing, Martha preparing a luxurious tea of hot cakes and other dainties; and Miss Kitty, seated in her chair, and newly-dressed in a rich and flashy gown, is absorbed in viewing her Craftbox purchases, namely, some fifteen yards of purple satin, ditto of black, divers yards of lace; and collars, and handkerchiefs, and ribbons and flowers without number. Over these she gloats and speculates, and thinks what a fine thing it is to have money wherewith to buy more than other people. Not a care exists in her sordid and ruthless heart for the poor witless wretch who has gone forth into the storm. She is only glad she is rid of her--only hopes that the storm may last till to-morrow's night is over, that she may have a jolly supper, and make her nose redder. Thus blind to her worthy fate, she sees not, like Belshazzar, the hand-writing on the wall! Without heeding her otherwise than that the officer leaves some austere commands-a man is continued in his charge of the lights for the night, and the little company go forth on their way, aided by lanterns, for it is now fully sandy road. An old-fashioned covered chaise stands waiting beside the little wicket opening on the lawn, and which is recognized as belonging to Camborne Hall. Johnny stops to speak to the lad in attendance, for it is the same he has seen before to-day, and learns that old Sir John is not only very bad, but that his London lawyer is now closeted with Mr. Mervyn. Then going onward, the pedler stays with the coastguardsman in the path, to listen a minute to young voices singing a carol in the kitchen; and when it is ended, they enter. It has been a sweet hymn, though simply sung; and, as heard in the fitful pauses of the storm, has sounded like the heavenly promise of a better land, for all who suffer the trials of this mortal life! The kitchen is a large and cheerful place. A housekeeper-like looking woman, neatly clad, sits knitting by the fire. Old Jehu, Mr. Mervyn's servant, clerk and sexton all in one, is closing his music - books, and laying by his tuning-reed; whilst the little choristers, in number some dozen or so, now gather round the fire, to await the dispersion of a pan of treacle toffy, at the hands of a pretty little girl of about ten years' old, who is Mr. Mervyn's adopted grandchild. Her parentage and sirname are not known, for she was cast on shore from a wreck when a few months' old. Rosa was her Christian name, for it was written on her clothes-for the other, Mr. Mervyn has given her his own; educates her, feeds her, clothes her; and in return she is the best and most dutiful of little ministers. She comes skipping forward the moment she sees Johnny's face, thrusts her little hand into his larger one, and whispering, has a host of interrogatories to put to him. request I summoned a physician and his lawyer from London. The latter is now with me, and we were at this very moment endeavouring_to arrange matters in the best way we could. But "Yes, deary," says Johnny, in answer to the I must now return to the hall with this gentlelast, I've got such rare fine things for Missman, and report the matter to the sick man, for Doll in my pack. But here's a post letter for late as his repentance has come, he at least your grandpa, so run in with it, it may be of wishes to make reparation, and therefore our consequence; and just say to his reverence, that poor unhappy friend Edith must be sent for. old Johnny Craftbox is here." No matter what that dark and evil woman says or does, the witless creature must see the dying man." She asks leave of Mrs. Richards, the housekeeper, and then runs off into the distant parlour. She is gone some minutes; and by the time she comes back, Johnny and the officer are snug by the glowing fire, whilst Jehu warms some ale, and serves it to the men. "Oh, Johnny, Johnny! cries Rosa, "grandpa has read the letter, and says it is a most wonderful one-so very wonderful, that God's great hand is in it. But he is coming to tell you so himself." "She may be dead herself, Mr. Mervyn," replies Johnny; and thereupon he proceeds to explain what has occurred at the Headland cottage; and how, probably urged by the cruelties she has endured, or perhaps tempted by Miss Kitty, she has been mad enough to try a passage to the lighthouse in the lifeboat with old Tom Lance; and how, in such a sea as rages, she may have been dashed to pieces, or else overwhelmed in the abyss of water. The old Mrs. Richards's chair, and all are concerned to see his grief. As for Johnny Craftbox, and Mrs. Richards, and little Rosa, they cry their heartiest tears. As she speaks, a venerable man, of eighty or more, with the visible impression of long-clergyman is deeply affected; he sinks into practised charities written in his serene countenance, comes feebly in. All rise respectfully to greet him; and in return, there is even warmth in the welcome he gives the honest pedler. He then turns to the coastguard officer, and there is a degree of sorrow in his words. "I fear yours is the usual errand, Mr. Scudmore." Precisely so, Mr. Mervyn. In spite of all your sermons, the Scowles are out to-night upon their dreadful work; for there is, I am sorry to say, a first-class Indiaman beating dead upon the shore. To make matters worse, and owing entirely to the most gross and wilful negligence, the lamps have been out in the lighthouse for more than eight-and-forty hours, and the fate of the Indiaman is sure, if the storm increases. Even as it is, there is little hope." "An Indiaman! an Indiaman!" repeats the aged clergyman. He repeats the word many times. "What's her name, officer?" His emotion, as he asks the question, is undisguisable. "It is not exactly known, sir. Three firstclass ships are expected in-the Hydaspes, the Ganges, and the Himalaya. It is without doubt one of the three." "Great God, in thy dear mercy save!" prays the old man. Then, after due pause, he turns to the honest pedler, and says, "The letter you have brought, good Craftbox, holds strange news. It is from an agent in London, inquiring if Sir John Camborne is yet alive, as his nephew Walter is on his way home from India, in company of his son, his son's young wife, and their infant child. They left Bombay in the Hydaspes, and must be now near home. This letter has been purposely ɛent, so that tidings may await Mr. Camborne upon his arrival in England. This is the stranger, Johnny Craftbux, that old Sir John at this moment lies dangerously ill, and in some degree repentant of the many bad deeds of his long life. As you have perhaps heard, he sent for me two days ago, and at his "To think I made them man and wife," repeats the aged clergyman; "and in this hour that the bond should be rent asunder." Yet presently he grows more cheerful, for Mr. Scudmore tells him of the lighthouse buoys. 66 Perhaps," he says, as his grief passes by, "it may be His divine will to let light shine in this perilous hour. For poor Edith's trials have been many, and borne with a sublime patience, that would put most of those to shame who suffer in the strength of reason. Perhaps it may be His will to set aside her burden, and shine mercy down at last." Amen! Amen! good Mr. Mervyn. As Johnny Craftbox weeps, he thinks that little Rosa's voice has already whispered of this coming gladness. Amen! Amen! "This may not be the Hydaspes, Mr. Mervyn," says the officer, as he makes the signal of departure to his men; "but whether or not, I have the same duty to peform. I presume, too, that in case of any emergency, you will receive, as usual, those who need shelter beneath your roof. The matter depends, however, upon circumstances, and upon the point the ship may take, should any mischance occur. Still, sir, in respect to you, my errand here was to ask leave.' "I thank you, officer; but it was not necessary my house, such as it is, and my means, such as they are, are, as the country knows, open to the need of those who suffer such a calamity as shipwreck." "Thank you heartily, sir. Johnny Craftbox will go on to the village with these lads, and send what aid he can to us on Beacon Head. Now no further time must be lost-every minute is precious." Thus saying, the stalwart officer buttons his great coat about him, gives farther commands to Johnny, bids the clergyman and Mrs. Rich-, ards a respectful good-night, and goes. Mr. Mervyn retreats to his parlour and his guest, with whom he soon determines to return to the Hall. So little Rosa finds up his warm gloves, and puts them on, and Mrs. Richards fetches his coat and knitted comfortable, and, assisted by Jehu, he is soon in the chaise, though not before he has kissed and bidden Rosa to be good to any strangers which seek his home, as it is probable he shall watch through the night by Sir John's bed. He then tells Johnny Craftbox not to leave Margery Thwistle's till he has again seen him. In another minute the chaise is on its way to the desolated Hall. Before he takes his own departure, and whilst the little choristers wait in the porch, Johnny unstraps his pack, and finds there a little Christmas present for Mrs. Richards, a little gay apron for Rosa, and a bundle of lovely fragments in silk and ribbon for her doll, for she is one of his chief favourites. "You must work all to-morrow, and make Miss Doll rarely fine by Christmas Day," he says. "Oh! thank you, dear old Johnny," replies the happy little creature, "I'm sure I will. Indeed I shall sit up a great while to-night to sew-Mrs. Richards says I shall; and then you know, Johnny, my little warm bed will be ready, should any poor soul be borne up from the sea." He kisses her upturned innocent face, and goes. As he plods his way back to the St. Columb's Arms--and, happily, whilst so doing the storm abates a little-he wishes all who sin could have seen Rosa's guileless face, and heard her childish voice helping in the Christmas carol, as, if anything could touch them to repentance, it would be the twain! None but those accustomed a full life-time to the terrors of that iron coast would have ventured on a passage to the Light-house, or, venturing, would have escaped inevitable death. Even as it is, escape is a prodigious miracle; for buried for whole minutes beneath the mighty crowning waves, beaten back against the rocky causeway, bruised and crushed, and torn and breathless-nothing but a daring that has no fear of death nothing but a hope which only death itself can subdue-nothing but an instinct that is almost superhuman, could guide the life-boat through the terrors of the rising storm. Often hurled back-often with a mountain wave to climb again, in danger of being swept out to sea, and so irrecoverably lost, the old lighthouse-man, when well nigh spent and succumbing to his fate, seizes fortunately one of the lighthouse-buoys, and resting for an instant is able to make himself heard above the roar of the hoarse breakers. The two anxious watchers within the lighthouse render assistance by throwing out ropes from the port-hole least exposed to the might of the waves, and eventually the boat is secured and those within it rescued, though a heavy sea sweeps in through the briefly un casemented port-hole. When drawn within, and the drowning water has dripped a little from her garments, it is found that Edith is both hurt and bleeding, as more than once she has been dashed against the rocks by the force of the breakers. Still, famished as those who have been pent within the lighthouse are, and exhausted as the old man is who has accompanied her, she is their first care. They wring the water from her garments, bear her between them-for she is spent and helpless-to an upstairs chamber, kindle a bit of fire in the low grate, stanch the blood which oozes from her poor temples, revive her with little brandy, spread a rough pilotcoat and lay her on it, and then hurry away to rekindle the long-extinguished lamps-for old Tom Lance has brought oil as well as Edithand do other work, needful in that perilous hour. For a long time the poor witless creature lies in a sort of stupor. The fire, as it burns up, sheds its light upon her pallid face, and casts Rembrandt-like effects athwart the dull shadows of the dungeon-room. By-and-bye she revives a little, grows less faint and sick; old Tom Lance comes in at intervals to look at her; and old Jenny, the goat, and her little kid, finding out their tender mistress presently, creep in and lick her face and hands, and eventually take up their rest at her feet. As the night wears on, as the storm grows wilder, as Nature in its dread majesty sums up its awful terrors, as now and then in the pauses of that wild sea, the accustomed ear can catch the faint booming of the distress-guns of the majestic Indiaman, Edith feebly rises, pushes the dank hair from her face, and going from the room without light of any kind, comes back by-and-bye with something in her arms. As she nears the fire, though still bleeding and evidently ill, there is a lightness in her step which was not before, and as she bends to the fire you may see that what she bears is the poor resemblance of a human babe, made up, for the most part, of rags, and whose face a charred stick has drawn the lineaments, yet dressed in little clothes, which scissors and needle have elaborately fashioned. With this she crouches down beside the fire, caresses it, rocks it, and sings to it, in a subdued, a tender, moaning voice, that to hear it might melt a heart of stone. Occasionally she talks to it with a pathos indescribable-occasionally holds it up to smile at it; but when she finds it does not answer her, or look at her in return, there come glimpses of the real truth that it is a mass of rags and nothing more, and she flings it away from her, buries her face wildly in her hands; though not to weep, alas! the fountains of her tears are dry. Yet by-and-bye she gathers it back mournfully to her arms, and falls into a fitful sleep. She awakes at midnight, cold and numb. The fire is out, the goat is gone, the room is drenched with water. Materials being at hand, she rekindles the fire, and then, with something like human terror chilling her heart, she steals up to the topmost story of the lighthouse. The storm is raging, and has raged awfully. All the burners are dashed in save one; this, the men, at the peril of their lives, are striving to keep alight. "Mrs. Grey," cries old Tom Lance, when he sees the shivering woman on the floor beneath the platform on which they are at work," the lighthouse will never stand another hour's sea. Light a torch, get what food there is, something for a fire, and the key of the refuge; for as soon as this is alight we must fly." She would, even in this awful hour, dissent against her hated name, and which has only been used through a moment's forgetfulness; but seeing words would be vain, she seeks the massive key from amongst others hanging on a staple in the wall. As she turns with it to Tom Lance, a sea rushes against the granite building, and shakes it like an aspen tree. Looking up she sees something borne by the waves against the burner-something bound to a spar-something for a moment as visible to her keen, quick sight as though it were within her arms-A HUMAN BABE. Another moment it is washed back by the waves and is gone. "Oh, God!" she cries, as she springs up to the platform beside the men, "a child!-my child!-come back to me at last. Save it!" In her eager madness she thinks it is her own long lost babe. Young Tom Lance has seen it too. He prevents her dashing up against the lights, which she would do, and, letting in the sea, overwhelm them; but full of humanity, and at the risk of his life, he, as quick as thought, opens one of the inner casements, gets within it, closes it, opens the outer one towards the raging sea, and, wet and blind, and bruised and breathless, seizes the spar as it floats back again, to be engulfed for ever. Blind and numb he feels for his knife, cuts the cording, secures the precious burden in his stalwart arm, draws in with perilous effort the outer casement, shuts out the sea, opens the other, and descending in a cloud of water, places the baby in those eager arms. Its eyes are closed, but it still breathes, and its heart beats feebly. "Let's take it to the fire," cries young Tom Lance. But he need suggest nothing-do nothing; mighty nature teaches this woman what to do; for aye! her soul has hungered thirty years for infant-love. She flies with it, bears it to the fire, strips off its little garments, tears back her own tattered rags, and lays it to her breast. Rock it there, poor mourning mother, though the fountains which would feed it have been so long dry! Rock it there, warm it there, it will be cherished; for thy nest, for this poor fledgling, is nature's own! Growing warm, the baby revives a little, and begins to cry. Ah! what music to her ear! Hungry-nay ravenous for human love, she feeds upon this with enraptured ear; and if impassioned kisses can awake it once again into the fulness of baby-life, it will awake indeed. Yet, with a sanity which is perfectly wonderful, she omits Old Tom Lance now descends into the chamber, and is astonished to find the baby so revived. But there are sterner things to be thought of than congratulations. The lighthouse in building has been secured against a tapering wall of rock in which a chamber has been formed, as a refuge in any case of imminent peril. Its small but triple doors, from which ascend a few steps, open from this chamber in which Edith sits. These the old lighthouseman unlocks, examines them well, goes up within their dark and airless precincts, hastily kindles a fire, carries in food and fuel, and then hurries up to the platform where he has left the men. By the clock it is now two hours past midnight, and the remorseless storm still rages. The building has been so repeatedly struck by heavy seas that many of its massive stanchionirons have already given way, and now just as the old man reaches the foot of the platform, the last burner is dashed in and extinguished. Appalled and fearing that another sea may bear all before it, the men descend, and, with old Tom Lance, run for their lives, the quicker that the water begins to pour in from many points of the building; arousing Edith, who, with the newly-recovered babe asleep in her arms, sits, lost in a dream of happiness, by the fire. They fly with her, and the poor goat and its little one, into the refuge-chamber; close, as fast as mortal hands can move, the partitioning doors; a whit too soon, for before the first is fairly closed, a mighty sea, rolling and sweeping from the main, hurls every fragment of the lighthouse into the abyss before it, and the tall lone point of rock stands solitary amid the waste of waters, like some lonely mountain peak at the deluge of the world! but not Little Rosa sits up till midnight to make Miss Doll fine. Mrs. Richards then proposes that they go to bed, leaving the kitchen fire well fed and the porch door unlocked, so that should Mr. Mervyn return unexpectedly, he can gain his chamber. They are alone in the house, for Jehu went forth when the first distress-gun was heard; and thus the little child and housekeeper are wholly alone. Rosa reluctantly obeys. Even when in her chamber she does not undress, but creeping within the clothes of her little nest-like She cannot rest, bed, lies listening, with fear and pain, to the roar of the surging sea. small thing; her tender heart is so full of charity and pity. She creeps downstairs again, and softly, lest she awake the good old housekeeper. Here she draws a stool to the fire, and sits thoughtfully in the warm glow. She sits a very long time, thinking of many things-her doll, the Christmas Eve that is coming on, but most of all of the beloved grandpapa which God has given her. Thus sitting, she think |