see that it only hinders, not assists you," she said, striving to take the knotty staff which the old man always carried.

"Nay, nay, child. The anchor must be held. The mast not be cut away!" he resisted, childishly petulant now. "Don't you see that if I let go I shall drown?" grasping the heavy stick harder.

As you will, father; but let us hurry. The sea begins to roar. There is a wild storm coming;" casting her eyes anxiously out on the waters, as they turned the corner of a rocky cliff and struck into a narrow shore path that led along the beach and the entire length of the narrow promontory on whose farthest point the lighthouse stood.

The old man shambled along, his uncertain steps upheld by his daughter, till their progress was arrested by a call.

Looking in the direction whence it sounded, Marguerite saw a boat drawn up to the beach, and a bronzed, bearded, middle aged man, in a sailor's jacket and tarpaulin, apparently about pushing off.

"Ye're welcome to a seat in my boat, Miss Marguerite, for yerself and the old man; and I'll set ye down at the lighthouse foot in less' no time," said the sailor, fixing his dull, sinister blue eyes upon her.

Marguerite Duclos half shuddered as she noted this man; and answered quickly: "I thank you, Mr. Gunnel, but we shall reach home in time;" and was about hastening onward. But her father, with sudden perversity, walked direct to the boat as fast as his shuffling steps would allow, and began to clamber in, leaving Marguerite, who had tried to withhold him as he slipped away his arm from hers, in great perplexity and trouble. For she had long avoided this weather-bronzed, middle-aged sailor, because of the reports of his unlawful life, and more of late had she shunned him because she had been forced to shun his visits to the lighthouse.

"Come now, Mistress Margy, don't be danty! Jest step in, and be at home in a jiffy!" said the sailor, urgingly.

"Indeed, Mr. Gunnel, but I will not trouble you! Come, mon pere," she said, coaxingly, "let us hurry home along the path."

But the old man did not heed her; and the sailor laughed again.

"Yer daddy knows what's best, and means to take the little trip, as ye see. So come now, pretty Margery! Leave Mistering old Ben Gunnel, and put yer dainty foot into the boat. Mabbe the 'Star o' the Lighthouse' has never sailed in a swifter little craft than this; and, while we're dallyin', its getting darker with that overcast sky, and 'tis most time for the lightin'."

"True; and I will go with you," replied the girl, stepping into the boat, which Ben Gunnel pushed off into the surf.

CHAPTER II. MARGUERITE DUCLOS sat down in the middle of the boat near her father, who lay, crouching in a heap, with face downward, his gray locks sweeping the plank bottom of the craft, his hat cast off behind him, and he fast lulled to sleep by the rocking motion.

The girl's own hat had also fallen down her back,

and her luxuriant hair, loosened and blowing in the freshening wind, covered her shoulders like a dark veil.

Ben Gunnel-" Wrecker Ben," as he was known in the seaport town, though none could openly affirm that he was really engaged in this unholy calling, while suspicion was strong-Ben stood at the tiller, intent upon guiding the boat through the breakers.

And so they shot out through the curling surf into stiller water, where Marguerite expected that he would turn the boat's head in the direction of the lighthouse, as he had promised. But no! on he kept still on directly seaward; until the girl began to feel a strange fear uprising in her heart, and cried out: "You are getting too far off shore, Mr. Gunnel! Why don't you make for the lighthouse?" Ben turned at the tiller, and faced her with that sinister look deepening in his dull eyes.

His face glowed with malignant satisfaction as he saw her—that beautiful girl—in his power. "Ha ha! Mistress Margery! My time's come now! No use in your gettin' put out, for you might as well make up your mind that the old lighthouse lamps won't be lit to-night;" and he uttered a burst of hoarse laughter. "Howsomever, I didn't exactly mean that; for you've only to alter your mind about the answer to that little question I asked ye last winter, and I'll steer straight to the P'int. "Taint that I care perticarly about seein' any vessels ashore on the reefs to-night, but I am bound, unless you promise to marry me, little Margery, that there'll be wreck and ruin for them and ye afore to-morrow dawn-for there's a liitle cabin on yonder island," pointing over the water to a dark clump rising out of the gathering twilight, "where ye and yer dotin' old daddy shall be kept till ye are called for!" And again that hoarse, exultant laugh, rife with fiendish malice, broke from that hardened man's lips.

Marguerite sat crouched down on the boat's bottom, her face pale as death, and her large, dark eyes dilated with terror. But at length her thoughts took shape, and indignation rose to her face, bringing a tide of red, and her eyes flashed scorn.

"Ben Gunnel, you are a bold, bad man!" she said, indignantly.

"That's what they say o' me over in the port; so you'd better tell me some news, Mistress Margery," he answered. "Stick to the subject we was thinkin' of-that's more shipshape!" "Would you marry a girl who could not care for you, or respect you?" Surely you would not!'' said Marguerite.

"Talk romantic stories to younger folks than I, mistress; mabbe to that young fellow from the big school-univarsity, I b'lieve they call it—who used to come here rock-huntin' last summer;" and the sailor cast a meaning look upon the girl. "He'd be purty well at home in that kind o' stories, I reckon."

A shade of crimson shot over Marguerite's face, but she made no answer She now knew that her captor read the secret of her heart.

"Come, gal, it's getting rougher. What's your answer? If you promise me, faithful, to-morrow week, Father Le Moyne to do the job, I'll row

you straight to the Pint; but if you won't come to terms then we are bound for the island yonder. Five minutes to make up your mind, Margery; and while your thinkin', let me tell you that when you're Ben Gunnell's wife, no lady in the port shall wear a richer silk gown or longer gold chain, and your old daddy shall lay in a snug harbor the rest o' his days. Be sensible now, Margery, and make up your mind that ye'll get a mate that'll keep everything snug and trim for ye." And his hard voice softened as much as it was capable of-for the old wrecker really loved this beautiful young girl as such rough, hardened natures can.

For a little time all was silent; and even the roar of the rising storm lulled, as if to listen to that girl's answer. At length she spoke :

"Ben Gunnel, I am in your power. You know that I dislike you-have shunned you, and already refused you. You know that I believe all the stories told of your wicked, unlawful calling. And yet you decoy me into your power by falsehood, and in that way try to force me to become what you know will make me miserable for life-your wife. I should hate myself forever if I were in your place. But I shall give you my promise. Not that I am afraid of you for myself; but because I will not let those lamps in yonder lighthouse remain unlit to-night, and so some vessel go on the reefs. I sacrifice myself to save others. I am but one poor girl; and many might perish. Turn the boat to the lighthouse!"

Silently Ben obeyed. He did not feel like talking much, as men usually do who have gained a victory. And something in the girl's white, set face, and fixed eye, appalled him. He rowed for the point, and drew up at the little rocky pier. When he had roused and assisted the old man to the shore, he turned to Marguerite, who stood ready to lead her father up to the stone door. But she would not let him speak; and silently he shoved off, muttering to himself, "she'll keep her word!"

He looked back when well beyond the breakers, and saw the lamps in the lighthouse sending their red glare far out over the sea.

CHAPTER III.

THREE days went by-days of torture to Marguerite Duclos. Closer and closer the toils seemed gathering about her. Nearer and nearer approached the time when she was to set the seal to her misery. For, her word once pledged, she was too honorable to retract it, and thus seek to escape her impending fate. But most gladly would she have set the seal to her unhappiness by death, could it have come, instead of this promised union.

On the third twilight, a storm-one of the same series whose avant courier had hurried her home that fatal day when she had fallen into Ben Gunnel's power-roved abroad in all its strength. The sea was roused to its fullest might; the wind blew a gale; and ihe surf beat like thunder on the shore. Long ere the night fell, Marguerite had lighted the lamps in their lofty eyrie; and then, soothing her father to sleep as a mother might a child, with a lulling song, she had returned to the lighthouse chamber to watch the long hours away-for she

could not sleep for the wild thoughts contending in her brain.

Perhaps she had remained thus for three hours, when a sudden report startled her into alarm. Once twice, thrice it was repeated-that dull, booming sound coming over the waters-the sound but too familiar to those who dwell upon a dangerous shore.

The girl started to her feet. She realized what had occurred. A ship was on the reef and was firing signals of distress.

"God pity them!" she involuntarily cried, thinking of the drowning men; and then added: "They must have seen the light, unless he," and she spoke the word with a shudder-"unless he has lured them to destruction. But I pray God they may escape!"

Then, without further ejaculations, but with decisive action, she saw that the lamps burnt clear, and left the chamber. Hastily descending the winding stone stairs, she donned a thick waterproof, took a lantern, and left the lighthouse for the extreme headland. Here she stood on the high bank, waving her lantern to and fro, and striving to pierce the gloem with straining vision. For many minutes the sound of the distress guns came on the wind, then grew fainter and fainter; and at last all was still.

Some spell seemed to bind the girl to the spotsome undefined idea that she might render some aid; and when, by and by, a huge roller brought in a human body and tossed it at her feet, she quietly, eagerly drew it in from the returning wave, and claimed it for her prize.

Still the rain fell and the wind roared. But Marguerite Duclos gave no thought to the raging elements-for all her soul was centered on that pale face, in its frame of long, clinging hair, showing deathly white beneath the lantern's gleam.

It was the face of the pale student youth, who, last summer, lingering in the seaport town, had, upon the shore, met and loved the "Star of the Lighthouse," sweet Marguerite Duclos.

And now to meet him thus-was it not terrible? But yet, was she not already lost to him by her fatal promise to the wrecker?

With superhuman strength, yet face almost as pale as his own, the girl drew his senseless form high up beyond the reach of the tide, then ran to the lighthouse. Speedily she returned with a flask of brandy, some of which she tried to force between his lips. And, after a couple of fishermen, who had followed her from a cabin near the lighthouse, had rolled the apparently drowned man, to free him of the water which had surcharged his stomach and lungs, she beheld signs of returning life.

An hour after, clad in dry garments, Marguerite Duclos ministered to the restored, but still weak youth; while her father, roused from his slumber, stood by in childish wonder.

And Adrian Northfield-the dark-eyed, highbrowed student-gathered to his lips the brown hands of the girl who had saved his life and whispered:

"My Marguerite! Doubly mine now."

How could she tell him that she was for ever lost to him?

But her kind Father in heaven more merciful than man, was about to rescue her. She was to be saved.

With the gray morning, in a lull of the fierce storm, came a message from Wrecker Ben, who lay dying in his cabin. Marguerite entered the boat, and was rowed over the swelling waters to his rock-bound island-home.

Into her ears the dying man poured a confession, while he asked her pardon. His hand had administered the slow poison-mixture which had softened old Pierre Duclos' brain, in order that, her natural protector removed, the lonely girl might fall into his power. But when she failed to accept his suit, then naught was left but to get her into his possession by the stratagem which we have recorded; and which, but for the accident which befell him on that night of the storm when he had lured the vessel on the reef to destruction, would have reaped its fruit of success.

But now, Wrecker Bén, with crushed, mangled frame, lay breathing out his life; and with his failing breath he sued for a forgiveness which was not withheld.

With the heavy nightmare lifted from her life, Marguerite Duclos breathed free again. And when the young student returned to his home, she was his betrothed wife. And two years after, Adrian Northfield bore away the "Star of the Lighthouse" as his bride.

A Newly-Married Couple.

A gentleman just in from a Western trip gives a very laughable account of a newly-married couple who boarded the train at a way station. He says, as the train drew up to the station the whole car was aroused by the unusal din, and noisy farewells, "Wish you much joy," and repeated kissings of a jovial crowd of young folks.

The newly married couple, arrayed in wedding costumes, and evidently fresh from the final service, took seats in the centre of the car, and were at once the attraction. In a very few moments both the bride and groom gave evidence that there were some more overpowering agencies than love at work in their systems. The groom turned over a seat in front, and elevated his pedals; he put his arm modestly upon the back of the seat, while the air from the window floated the white veil and the flavor of orange blossoms over his face. But something was on his mind, and he momentarily grew more restless, and twisted and squirmed in all manner of ways. The bride, too, seemed to have the same symptoms. She tried the easiest attitudes, now with her head lovingly on his manly shoulder, then suddenly arousing and looking uneasily from the window, as if in expectancy of disaster, or that she would meet the frown of an angry father.

Suddenly, when all eyes were attracted to the couple, the groom, evidently receiving a new and deeper twinge, with misery depicted on every feature of his face, lifted his right leg, and began tugging at a new boot which some wicked shoemaker had inveigled him into buying as a pertect fit. After pulls and tugs which made the veins stand out on his face, and the arteries on his neck throb like a small steam engine, he succeeded in releasing his

foot, and a sense of happiness stole across his manly face. The bride surveyed the smile, but it only seemed to increase her misery. She wiggled, and fanned, and finally in desperation she attacked the buttons of her new shoes with as much vigor as her lord did his boots, and one by one they dropped upon the floor.

Both sets of feet were placed in proximity upon the overturned seat, and the bride's shawl hid them from the vulgar gaze. The bonnet was unlimbered from its pedestal, and the blushing bride dropped casily upon the shoulder of her husband, and securely slept, as the train whistled and stopped and started. The passengers, relieved of anxiety, had settled to cat-naps and newspapers and peanuts, when a long whistle was followed by the brakeman putting his head in at the door, and yelling, "Cresson."

"Great Jerusalem, Julia! wake up! here we are," shouted the bridegroom; "and there's them infernal boots!"

He jumped at them, and tugged and sweat and swore, but those feet had actually grown about an inch, and it was no go. The station was reached, when only one foot was stuck half way in the leg. The fair Julia had encased her pedals slip-shod, and as "time and tide" and railroad trains "wait for no man" they gathered their traps, and went out just as they were, "without one plea," to meet the crowd of friends assembled to meet the newly wedded pair. As the train started, the brakeman came into the car remarking, "I tell you, the boys at the depot are having fun over that couple." We are expecting every day to hear of the sudden death of that shoemaker, and to see the jury bring in a verdict of justifiable homicide.

RAPS ON THE LAPSTONE.

BY DR. GEORGE W. BUNGAY.

Old Crispin wore a paper cap
And an apron made of leather;
He sat upon his bench to rap

Soles (not spirits) hours together.
He said his last days were his best,

Though he felt the thread unwinding; His heart waxed warm within his vest, And what he closed was binding. When others spoke of this world's weal, Crispin pointed to an upper ;

He had the wondrous skill to heel,

But gave his "earthly awl" for supper. He heeled more than the doctor;

And helped the soles more than the preacher; For a "quid pro non" he gave a quid, And used the strap more than the teacher.

Ay, Crispin was a good old man,

Yet sometimes he would bristle ; But do the very best he can,

"A pig's tail will not make a whistle."

A well-informed man belongs to the true knowbility.

on the spot where you stand, and you will find the wealth you so much desire."

"Who are you, who tells me to dig?"
"Dig, dig, dig!" croaked the voice.
"Who are you?"

"Here is more gold," thought he, "than would pave my cottage a metre thick, and often have?I wished all day for half a handful of coppers."

The temptation was strong upon him to pocket a little, but he pushed resolutely on. When the third gate was reached, and opened, and he saw the contents of the cavern beyond, in one minute he despised the gold and silver of the previous chambers, and he stood dazzled before the sight he saw.

it."

He did so, and after a time his shovel struck upon something, which gave back a hollow sound. He moved away the earth, and found a square, flat stone, provided with an iron ring. The stone was firmly fixed, but Hajee was strong, and his will stronger. He seized the iron ring, and lifted with all his might. The stone yielded, and he found himself staring at a damp and moss-green flight of steps. For some time Hajee stood irresolute, but his hesitation was not long. He was a man of courage, and was armed with a woodman's axe, which is a formidable weapon.

So down the steps he boldly went-down into the earth. And as he descended, he found that the place was illuminated with phosphorescent light. He thought the steps would never end, but they finished at a gate, on which hung a key, above an inscription running thus:

"Stranger, whoever you are who has the good or bad fortune to discover this spot, go on until you have passed three gates, of which this is the first. Take the bell you see, and ring it when you are assailed. Tread resolutely, and fear none of the sights which you may behold, for nothing that you do not fear while you are honest can harm you. When you have passed the three gates you will come to a cave, and therein, no matter what else you may find, you must discover and seize a hammer which will be there. Never give the hammer away, for the gnomes of the earth obey it."

Hajee took the key, and with a little trepidation he opened the first of the three gates, which yielded with a horrid sound.

A thousand hideous forms seemed to be about him, and for a moment he debated whether it would not be better to turn back. But it has been said that he was a brave man, and he had the inscription still before his eyes. So he faced the animals, shook his bell, and lo! the way was clear.

The second gate he found to be of gold, illuminated by a silver lamp, which shed a brilliant lustre upon the portal. This gate also obeyed the touch of the key which Hajee held. Beyond was a chamber where reclined the figure of a woman, richly clothed and shadowy, all but her shining jewels.

Certain strange and shadowy figures, smiling and bowing, now approached, and seemed desirous of dragging him towards the beautiful woman, who turned and smiled.

SEE ENGRAVING.

But he doubted these blandishments, and ringing his bell they flew from before its force. He went on, and as he went so, he found himself wadng ankle-deep through gold and silver coins that lay in his path.

rested in admirable order, the finest collection of jewels that had ever been brought together. There were diamonds by the peck, and even rubies and emeralds were there by the bushel. So great was his amazement that he let fall his magic bell, which, ringing, reminded him of the magic hammer, which he now saw swinging at the end of a silver thread. This he seized, and in a moment hideous forms were about Hajee, and threatening him.

For a moment he lost heart, but then he swung the hammer around him. In a second the fearful phantoms were gone.

He now recovered his self-possession, and looked about him. He touched the jewels, and finding them real, he began to gather those nearest his right hand, and place them in his threadbare pockAs soon as all of his pockets were filled, he took up his hammer and started home.

ets.

When he came out into the every-day world again, it seemed to him that the landscape was different from its old appearance. He saw with rich eyes.

"Hajee! what has happened?" demanded his wife, when he reached home.

"A great deal, Fatimah," replied Hajee. "I have no further need to gain bread by cutting wood, for now we may buy as much cake as we wish. See here!" And he produced his pile of sparkling jewels.

"Why, what pedlar's ware have we here?" said Fatimah.

"They are real, precious stones."

His wife broke into laughter. It was the first time Fatimah had laughed at him in all their married life, and Hajee felt deep disappointment.

But the jewels shone as brightly as before. "I will prove them real, for I will sell them.". "And be seized for a thief?" cried his wife. "Thief!" echoed Hajee.

"Ay, husband; for by what honest way can a mere wood-cutter obtain a dozen handfuls of precious stones ?"

Wife," said Hajee, "there is one wood-cutter in this forest who has never flogged his wife, and that good man is myself."

"What! would you beat your good woman, Hajee ?-and because she would save you from the bastinado! Ah! me-woe, Fatimah?"

And here the good, tender-hearted woman burst into tears, and, indeed, made a terrible din.

From that they quickly progressed into a quarrel-this honest couple who had never exchanged a harsh word on any former occasion-and they quarreled so loud and fiercely that the roof trembled over their heads.

"Faith of the prophet!" thought Hajee, when the