NOON. THOMAS PARNELL. THE sun is swiftly mounted high, Warm the cold, the dead desire, That worldly charms be seen to fade To scatter all the clouds of sin, That drive when gusts of passion rise, Mount with that and leave it there; THE STORY OF A GOVERNESS. (Continued from page 178.) Y DEAR GERTRUDE.-Day after day passes away, and I am no more reconciled to my position than at first. I feel as solitary as Robinson Crusoe. Yet I live in a house where some fifty or sixty persons are living and working. Being a hireling, I am too low for the society of my lord, who pays me wages; while, on the other hand, being a "young lady," I am too high for the servants to be familiar with; so that I am completely cut off from the society of my fellow creatures. My pupil, Lady Clara, might have soothed this isolation, by taking an interest in me, and making me her companion; for she has none in the house but Rose, her maid. She has much need of a companion, such a one as I could be to her, but she is only an occupation for me. Obliged to obey me, she does it with the haughty submission of a superior temporarily abdicating her position. Every movement she makes is done with the air of saying "I do it now, because I must but wait." She treats me as she would a guide in a strange place, accepting temporary service, without recognising me as master, or even as equal. I have tried every avenue to her heart, but in vain, they are all closed against me. His lordship better disguises his hauteur under the most profuse politeness; but, at heart, he looks upon me as one of his people. He has no more sympathy or consideration for me than his daughter has. I am surrounded with attentions which, it is easy to see, are only the fruits of mistrust. I am watched at every turn, as though I was a prisoner bent on making my escape. When I go out with my pupil, a footman is always at our heels. I can obtain nothing| for Lady Clara or myself except through Mrs. Clements, and nobody but Rose is allowed to preside over my pupil's toilet; thus every action, even the most trifling, is submitted to a triple inspection. My position with my pupil is like that of the kings of Spain, who were not permitted to draw their chair back from the fire when it scorched their legs, but had to summon the chamberlain, whose office it was to perform the task. Ah, how can I describe the painful discomfort of these perpetual restraints? Never to be able to give way to one's natural feelings and impulses. I must not hum a tune or sing a favourite song, for fear of disturbing my pupil. I must not laugh for fear of making myself appear too familiar, nor weep for fear of being questioned. To live perpetually under the idea of existing only for another, who is a spy upon me, who is in no way related to me-is most intolerable. And yet I have feelings and a will of my own, and this is what I have to submit them to. Ah, how I envy those hearty country girls who pass my window every morning and evening going to their work in the fields, or returning home, singing merrily as they go, and exchanging smiles with every one they meet. My only amusement-and this I am obliged to cherish secretly-is my bird: my dignity as a governess would be compromised if it were known that I had such a play fellow.. It is full-feathered now, and flutters when I take it in my hand. Yesterday there was a chirping of sparrows on the balcony; when my bird heard it, it made a great noise, and spread its wings. "Only wait," I exclaimed, "until you are strong enough to fly, and never fear that I shall keep you pri: ouer. Thou at least shall be free, and nothing shall keep thee from the blue sky which God has given thee for a home." June 28th. For some time past a real battle has raged between Lady Clara and myself. I think she wants to test my authority, and see how far she can go. I first remonstrated with her, and then punished her, but the rebellion increased, until matters came to such a pass that I had to complain to his lordship. He seemed much more annoyed at my complaining than at the cause of it, and less dissatisfied with his child's rebellion than with the unreasonableness of the governess. He gave me to understand that I was there to relieve him of every care respecting Lady Clara, and not burden him with any; and that it was for me to govern by will or power-for I must do him this justice, he gave me full liberty to do as I like. I had permission to make war, provided that the sound of the musketry and cannon did not reach his ears. Therefore, I clearly see that I cannot reckon upon his assistance in the discharge of my dutie. You, who have suffered so long from the opposite extreme, will, perhaps, envy me. The responsi bility which weighs me down, you have vainly solicited and awaited for six years. The feverish solicitude of a mother has denied you all influence, and I have frequently heard you, with tears in your eyes, ask for a little authority. You are stifled under the weight of your yoke. I bend beneath that of my liberty. Placed between the egotistical demands of his lordship and the imperious demands of my conscience, I waver in continual anxiety. The duty I perform without peace or happiness I am always in fear of losing unwittingly. Lady Clara is ordered to take a good deal of exercise. So we g› fields, half-baked in the scorching heat of the sun. out every day for a walk. And we walk along the side of the cornThere is not a meadow, nor a murmuring brook, not a bit of shade of any kind, nothing but the monotonous burning plain. none of those cool, pleasant, shady places we so love to ramble in, but I always return home exhausted by fatigue, blinded by the My pupil appears to enjoy the burning heat like a salamander, sun-light, and with a sick headache. Lady Clara is, I suspect, aware of this, and takes a malicious pleasure in prolonging our walk. I entertain a secret grudge against her, and I cannot help it. I am stantly, so as not to make her neglect an excuse for revenging myself. painfully excited to it every day. I have to watch myself conHow difficult it is to fulfil a task we do not like. 8th July. What a day this has been! What a variety of contradictory emotions I have experienced. Yet amid the confused crowd of recollections, pain and vexation are uppermost. Yesterday, while walking out as usual with Lady Clara, we passed through the village. For several days previously I had taken this road, so that I might obtain shelter under the house at least a few moments from the heat, for they give the only shade I can meet with in my walks. Passing before the little road-side in, I suddenly heard a voice calling my name. I looked up, and who do you think it was but our old friend and school.ellow, Amelia Robarts. She was down-stairs in a moment, and her arms about my neck in a transport of surprise and pleasure. We both began questioning each other at once, neither listening to what the other had to say. But we soon grew calmer, and gave one another time to speak, as well as to listen. 66 Why, Julia, who would have thought of seeing you here? Where do you come from? What are you doing? and where are you going?" When I had replied to this catechism, Amelia informed me that she was on her way to meet her father, who had just arrived from South America, where he had made his fortune. She was accompanied by her old governess, now somewhat infirm; the journey in the stage-coach had fatigued her, and she hau stopped at the inn to recruit her strength. I saw her. She had nearly recovered, but as the stage-coach will not pass until tomorrow, they will have to wait for it. Amelia was very desirous that I should stay with her, but I showed her my pupil and the footman who were with me, and she understood that I could not do as I liked. As the governess said she would not want anything, Amelia thought she might venture to accompany me back to the hall, so we set out together. You well know Amelia's petulant curiosity; she was eager to question me about my new position as governess; but Clara walked close beside me, and took pleasure, I thought, in embarrassing my replies. Amelia soon perceived it, and in her off-hand way said familiarly to the child, "Run before, dear; our conversation will only tire you." Do you suppose that my little lady obeyed? Not a bit of it. Lord G's daughter turned her eyes upon Amelia with a cold, fixed stare., which seemed to pierce one through, and drily replied "My governess always wishes me to remain close to her." This, it is true, was one of my most frequent injunctions. Amelia, however, insisted; saying that she was sure I would give her permission to walk a little before us. My governess cannot allow me to do to-day what she forbid me doing yesterday," replied the child. Amelia exclaimed against this inflexibility. "The little one is the teacher," she said, half laughing, but a little vexed. "Can't you get rid of her for one minute ?" I replied, rather peevishly, I fear, that I had to watch over Lord G's daughter every moment; she was too well aware of it, and insisted upon her rights. Amelia did not persist any further; and we then talked about other matters-of our happy school days, of our friends and companions now scattered and dead. Thus chattering, laughing, and crying, we at length arrived at the hall. Mrs. Clements was wait ing for us. Ah," said she, "here you are then at last. His lordship has been very uncasy about his daughter." "Am I then so very late ?" I inquired, rather surprised. "Why, look at the clock, miss! His lordship waited, at least, five minutes before sitting down to table, and by this time he must have nearly finished his dinner." I was very much annoyed at my want of punctuality, and greatly embarrassed at appearing before his lordship with Amelia. agitation made me bold when I should have been calm. My I sent Lady Clara to join her papa at table, and went to my own room, requesting my dinner to be served to me there. I addressed myself to Rose, the lady's maid, who obeyed with an air of mute surprise; but I found myself in the position of a coward, whom embarrassment makes brave. Amelia accompanied me to my room, loudly rejoicing at our obtaining our liberty. Upon entering my apartment, she uttered an exclamation of astonishment. Brought up in London, she had never before seen anything like it. She was greatly struck with the tapestry, and the antiquated people represented on it. You know how short-sighted and excitable she is; she went from one figure to another, examining each through her eye-glass, laughing, and making the most comical remarks imaginable. Rose, who brought my dinner on a tray, appeared greatly struck at Amelia's behaviour, and Amelia saw it. "Are you aware," she said to me, when we were alone, "that there is nothing cheerful here but your tapestries. The faces of your people are so dull and gloomy, they make me yawn. You must be very dull in this old place. Fortunately, you appear to live well," she said, surveying the dish on my little round table. "You know I am fond of good living, and seeing you eat gives me an appetite. You invite me to dinner, don't you? I accept the invitation." And without another word she seated herself opposite to me at my little round table. In any other place I should have joined in her laugh at this merry freedom; but here I was embarrassed. When Rose returned to the room, I could not but observe the scandalised look she gave my unexpected but not unwelcome guest. Amelia's merry humour finally won and encouraged me. Time has in no respect altered her character. She is still the same quick and fiery creature as when you first knew her; but, also, the lively, frank, good-natured girl that you cannot help loving better than yourself. We had scarcely finished our dinner when Lady Clara came in to say that she was waiting to receive her music-lesson. Amelia inquired if I could not accompany her back to the village inn. My pupil immediately remarked in a tone somewhat peremptory, that when she had finished her music lesson, she had a lesson in geography to take. This persistent opposition made me a little angry, so commanding the little lady to be silent, I accompanied Amelia as far as the gate. She promised, at parting, to come to see me again before she went away. I watched her while she continued in sight, as she took her way through the lime-tree avenue. She tripped lightly along, stopping occasionally to pluck a flower from the hedges, or to watch a bird flying home to its nest, or to chase a butterfly with her parasol. Her white frock waving in light folds, her shawl half-off her shoulders, and her broad Leghorn hat flapping in the breeze, she looked the very picture of grace and freedom, which made me think involuntarily of myself. A strong feeling of my painful state of dependence came over me, and my heart was overwhelmed with bitterness. I saw Amelia disappear at the end of the avenue into the golden light of evening, and then I returned to the dismal monotony and gloom of the hall. This, I think, has been the saddest day of my life. Seeing Amelia has brought back to my mind all my happy school-days. I am reminded of the beautiful castles in the air we used to build in Mrs. Vernon's garden. The tours in Switzerland, Italy, and Scotland, we planned; the voyage up the Rhine; the long rambles by the sea shore in Devonshire; and all the beautiful visions that occupy the hearts of young girls. Ah! what have all the dreams of loved solitude and poetic liberty been to me? The waking reality is solitary confinement to an ungrateful task. I seem to have retired from life without having tasted it, to have become old before my time, to have drawn a curtain over the prospect of all my hopes, and changed the enthusiastic hymn of youth into a scholastic programme. These thoughts cast me down terribly. I felt the tears come involuntarily to my eyes. I would have given the world for one hour of solitude wherein I might weep without restraint. But there was my pupil, her eyes fixed upon mine with scrutinising curiosity, waiting to receive her lesson. I roused myself, and tried to be indifferent to everything but my duty. But it was a vain effort. My pupil spoke, yet I heard her not; her playing was an unmeaning pantomime. Hour after hour passed away with tedious slowness. I counted the minutes till bed-time; and at last, the hour struck. As soon as I had drawn the curtains around her little iron bedstead, I ran to my room and shut myself in. I had much need of feeling myself actually safe and protected against every interruption which belts and bars could give me. (To be continued.) THE HEART'S-EASE. You'll never, never meet. But if the wealthy will not bear I said in every garden ground; And constant should our faith be. We shall be crown'd with glory. Mary-if God within our bower Should plant this lovely little flower, To tend it be our duty; Then, should there be a smile or tear, So it be mutual, it will rear And maturate its beauty. THE OLD WOMAN OF THE WOOD. A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. NEAR the Castle of Windeck, in a moss-covered hut, there dwelt an aged and lone woman, to whom the people of the country around gave the name of the Little Old Woman of the Wood. She was a "wise woman," she knew of many hidden things, and especially of the secret virtues of plants and simples. The wild beasts of the forest did her no harm, but on the contrary, seemed to obey her voice. Her whole wealth consisted of some white fowls of an extraordinary size, which wandered at their pleasure in the wood. One day as the little old woman was seated at the door of her hut, two children, beautiful as the day, passed by. They looked weary and sad; and inquired the way to the castle. The old woman spoke kindly to them, and offered them some refreshment-bread, cheese, and fruit. The younger of the two, about thirteen years of age, ate of the food provided with a very good appetite; but the other, who appeared to be about seventeen or eighteen years of age, was sad, and held his apple in his hand untasted, while the tears flowed from his eyes. However, he strove to conceal his grief, and with this intention he went to a brook that flowed near by from a crevice in the rock, and washed his face. Like the flower refreshed by the dew, his cheeks now glowed with the pure bloom of youth. The Little Old Woman of the Wood gazed upon the youth kindly but sharply, and then said 66 Certainly you are no boy, but a young maiden. Now, children, trust me, and tell me where your parents live, and what you are going for to the Castle." Then both children wept, and the eldest replied "It is true that I am a girl-my name is Emma, and this is my brother. We have neither father nor mother. Our uncle is the Dean of the Chapter of Strasburg, he has brought us up like a father, but now he is a prisoner in the Castle of Waldeck, and we are going to beg the duke to give him his liberty." "Have you any ransom to give him?" inquired the old woman. "Ah," replied the simple girl, taking a diamond cross from her bosom; "alas! here is all the wealth I possess in the world; but we shall beg the duke to keep us as hostages until our uncle has paid his ransom." Ah, well, then, it is I who must ransom the dean," replied the little old woman of the wood, smoothing the curls from the brow of the fair Emma. "Hark ye, my children: the Strasburgers will march before the break of day to besiege the castle. I have tonight surprised two of their spies concealed in the wood. They have carefully examined the defences of the castle, and found out its weak side, above the pines, where stands the old stone cross. Go you, and seek Reinhard, the young Duke of Windeck, and tell him to dig a deep ditch as quickly as possible, to work in it himself even, for I fear that he will be attacked by the enemy this very night." "But will the duke set our uncle at liberty, then?" inquired the children. Saying these words, she clapped her hands, and immediately her flock of white fowls came flying from all parts. Taking one, she gave it to Emma, saying: "Take this fowl to Duke Reinhard, of Windeck, that he may restore the dean, your uncle, to liberty." The children gazed at the little old woman in perfect astonishment. "Do as I bid you," continued the old woman. "At sunset, today, the duke must place this fowl near the cross where his enemies intend to make their attack. He has not hands enough in his castle to perform the work of digging the wide and deep ditch that alone can save him; but my good fowl will attend to it." While speaking these last words she gently stroked the bird, and then, in a whisper gave it the following instructions:— "Pay particular attention to what I now say to thee. When night comes, when the owl hoots, go thou and scratch up the earth, raise a mound with it, scratch 'till thou reach the coffin of the hero, and his sword, which the rust corrodes not; go, and finish your task before midnight." Upon taking the fowl, Emma gave an involuntary shudder: but the little old woman exhibited so much benevolence and cordiality, that she gained her confidence. Her brother, far from feeling the slightest fear, rejoiced at the marvellous sight the fowl would show him. The children now set out on the road to the castle. They had proceeded scarcely half way up the mountain, upon the summit of which the castle stood, when they met the young duke. He was a tall and commanding person, and although his grave and severe aspect intimidated the girl, she was soon reassured by the gentle tones of his voice. To the various questions the duke put to them, to learn who they were, and for what purpose they were going to his castle, Emma replied-: "Noble duke, you hold our uncle; the Dean of Strasbourg, prisoner. He is a father to us, for we are orphans; therefore, we pray you to set him at liberty and keep us as hostages." The duke could scarcely conceal his emotion. He examined the children, then his glance stopped involuntarily upon the white fowl which Emma carried in her arms. Emma blushed, and told the duke everything connected with this alventure. The duke listened very attentively. His looks became more and more scrutinizing, and the young maiden became visibly disturbed. Her words were confused, which her brother perceiving, he endeavoured to help her memory. "Emma," said he, "the woman did not say so;" and at these words Emma blushed like fire. "Noble maiden," replied the duke, "the hand of God has directed you to this place, and here you will be under the protection of my arm; and you can return whenever you please. But come now and give your uncle a joyful surprise." While Emma and her brother were with the dean, their uncle, the duke made preparations for the defence of his castle. He well knew the weak side near the pines, and for some days previously he had been digging a ditch there. But as time pressed, the messenger from the Little Old Woman of the Wood greatly helped him. As soon as the first star appeared in the sky, he took the fowl to the stone cross where his grandfather had been slain in single combat and interred. At the moment the clock struck midnight he returned to the spot, and, to his great astonishment, he found a wide deep ditch with a parapet. Then, by the light of the stars, he discovered the glittering sword of his grandfather, which had been buried with him in his grave. The white fowl had disappeared. Towards morning the Strasbourgians arrived, in three detachments, with every preparation for an assault, but the fowl's ditch caused their enterprise to fail, and they were forced to retire with considerable loss. Emma had made a strong impression on the heart of Duke Windeck, and she on her part was not indifferent. But the dean, while prisoner, would not listen to any proposal of marriage; but after a while matters were arranged, and Emma married the duke, and the dean recovered his liberty. is IMPROVE THE INTELLECT. Look at the spreading oak, that pride of the village green! its trunk massy, its branches are strong. Its roots, like crooked fangs, strike deep into the soil, and support its huge bulk. The birds build among the boughs; the cattle repose beneath its shade; the neighbours form groups beneath the shelter of its green canopy. The old men point it out to their children, but they themselves remember not its growth; generations of men, one after another, have been born and died, and this son of the forest has remained the same, defying the storms of two hundred winters. Yet this large tree was once a little acorn; small in size, insignificant in appearance; such as you are now picking up from the grass beneath it. Such an acorn, whose cup can only contain a drop or two of dew, contained the whole oak. All its massy trunk, all its knotted branches, all its multitude of leaves were in that acorn; it grew, it spread, it unfolded itself by degrees, it received nourishment from the rain, and the dews, and the well-adapted soil, but it was all there. Rain, and dews, and soil, could not raise an oak without the acorn; nor could they make the acorn anything but an oak. The mind of a child is like the acorn; its powers are folded up, they do not appear, but they are all there. The memory, the judgment, the invention, the feeling of right and wrong, are all in the mind of a child; of a little infant just born; but they are not expanded, you cannot perceive them. Think of the wisest man you ever knew or heard of; think of the greatest man; think of the most learned man, who speaks a number of languages, and can find out hidden things; think of a man who stands like that tree, sheltering and protecting a number of his fellow-men, and then say to yourself, the mind of that man was once like mine--his thoughts were childish like my thoughts-nay, he was like the babe just born, which knows nothing, remembers nothing, which cannot distinguish good from evil, nor truth from falsehood. If you had only seen an acorn, you could never guess at the form and size of an oak; if you had never conversed with a wise man, you could form no idea of him from the mute and helpless infant. Instruction is the food of the mind; it is like the dew and the rain and the rich soil. As the soil and the rain and the dew cause the tree to swell and put forth its tender shoots, so do books and study and discourse feed the mind, and make it unfold its hidden powers. Reverence, therefore, your own mind; receive the nurture of instruction, that the man within you may grow and flourish. You cannot guess how excellent he may become. It was long before this oak showed its greatness; year after year passed away, and it had only shot a little way above the ground; a child might have plucked it up with his little hands; it was long before any one called it a tree, and it is long before the child becomes THE LIFE-BOAT AND HER WORK. EVER since the appearance of the CHILDREN'S JOURNAL, one of my boys-a quick, intelligent lad, who is a sailor every inch of himhas often, with tears in his eyes, been teasing me when he has heard me occasionally reading the newspaper accounts of the services of the lifeboats in stormy weather, to give him some account of the lifeboat and her work; and as I have some papers just now before me relating to the merciful work of the National Lifeboat Institution, I will not delay any longer in gratifying my boy's curiosity. The accompanying illustration faithfully represents an actual service that took place on the fatal Goodwin Sands, which is thus graphically described by the Rev. John Gilmore, of Ramsgate :On the day in question, which had been very threatening throughout, it was b'owing very fresh, with occasional squalls from the east north-east, and a heavy sea running. Never, perhaps, before or since, did men and boat live through such peril as the Ramsgate lifeboat's crew encountered on the night of the 26th November. "The boatmen had been on the look-out all day, but there were no signs of their services being required. Still, they hung about the pier till long after dark. At last many were straggling home, leaving only those who were to watch during the night, when, suddenly, some thought they saw a flash of light. A few seconds of doubt and the boom of the gun decided the point. "At once there was a rush for the 'Northumberland' lifeboat, which was moored about thirty yards from the pier. In a few minutes she was alongside. Her crew was already more than made up. She was overmanned, and the two last on board had to turn out. The cork jackets, in accordance with the regulations of the National Lifeboat Institution, were on each man in the lifeboat; the en were in their places, and all ready for a start in a few minutes. They had not been less active in the steamer, the Aid, which was to tow the lifeboat out, and in less than half-an-hour from the filing of the gun, she steamed gallantly out of the harbour with the lifeboat in tow. "Off they went, ploughing their way through a heavy cross sea, which often swept completely over the boat. The tide was running strongly, and the wind in their teeth; it was hard work, breasting both wind and sea in such a gale and tide; but they bravely set to their work, and gradually made headway. They steered for the Goodwin, and, having got as near to the breakers as they dared take the steam.er, worked their way through a heavy head-sea along the edge of the sands, on the look out for the vessel in distress. At last they made her out in the darkness, when the steamer shipped the hawser of the lifeboat, and anchored almost abreast of the vessel, with a! out sixty fathoms of chain out. There was a heavy rolling ses, but much less than there had been, as the tide had gone down considerably. The lifeboat made for the brig carried on through the surf and the breakers, and when within about forty fathoms of the vessel, lowered her sails, and threw the anchor overLoard and veered alongside. She proved to be a brig belonging to Liston. "On reaching the vessel they found another small life-boat under her lee, and her crew of five men on board the vessel. The officers and crew of the ship would not leave her at first, although it was evident she could not be saved. The life-boats remained by her until 2.50 a.m., when she filled and began to break up. The small life-boat being damaged and disabled, her crew, together with that of the brig, numbering eighteen in all, were then taken into the Ramsgate lifeboat, which, with her load of thirty-one persons, including her own crew, and with the small damaged lifeboat in tow, made ail through the broken water in the direction of Ramsgate, having failed to discover the steamer which had been for hours cruising up and down the edge of the sands vainly searching for the boat. Striking heavily on the sands the lifeboat came in contact with the Broadstairs' small boat, and completed her destruction; but driving safely over the shoals herself, she finally arrived, together with her living freight, safe and sound in Ramsgate Harbour. in "The captain of the lifeboat, James Hogben, was chosen to that position for his fortitude and daring, and well he sustained his character that night, never for one moment losing his presence of mind, and doing his utmost to cheer the men up. The crew consisted of hardy, daring fellows, ready to face any danger, to go out any storm, and to battle with the wildest seas, but that night was almost too much for the most iron nerves. The fierce freezing wind, the darkness, the terrible surf and beating waves, and the men unable to do anything for their safety; the boat, almost hurled by the force of the waves from sandridge to sandridge, and apparently breaking up beneath them each time, she was lifted on the surf and crushed down again upon the sands, besides the danger of her getting foul of any old wrecks, when she would have gone to pieces at once-bow all this was lived through seems miraculous. Time after time there was a cry, 'Now she breaks-she can't stand this-all over at last-another such thump and she's done for!' and and all this lasted for more than two hours, as, almost yard by yard, they beat for about two miles over the sands." I must now turn to another incident that took place in my own experience while sojourning on the coast. I was once asked by a gallant sailor, who had probably been shipwrecked himself, "Is a man's life worth four pounds seven shillings and twopence." The sequel will explain the meaning of this important question. The wind moaned and piped through the trees in the garden, and caine rumbling down the chimney of our lodging by the sea. There arose from the beach a solemn roar of waters. Through splashes of rain on the window pane, through the twilight gloom of a spring evening wrapped in the wild night of storm, we looked out on the glancing of white lines of surf and at the upward lightning of the rockets from a vessel in distress. As if defiant of the little flash of man's distress the black cloud was ablaze; and for an instant we could make out a brig distinctly. Had I and my little girl time we could have counted the men upon the deck. Darkness descended again as the floor under us was shaken by the mighty jarring of the thunder. Our hearts beat in the presence of no holiday spectacle. We went thither for sea air and health, choosing a spot where there was a bold coast, a fine sea, and only a small fisher hamlet near us. Here we learned there were many wrecks. The frail child we took had fled from the window to her sofa in the farthest corner of the room, and lay there panting with her hands before her eyes. I could not leave her to go down to the wild shore. And what could I, weak invalid, do when the very boatmen could do nothing but assemble in a hopeless crowd upon the beach. About them were hovering their mothers, wives, and daughters, who resisted by entreaty and force any attempt to put out through such a surf. The women on the shore there have their way, and so God comfort the wives and mothers of those out at sca. I did not lift next morning the corner of the sail covering that by which my old pilot was watching solemnly. He sat on the great heap of sea weed that now fringed the shore. "How many, Jem ?" I asked, after I had stood by him a long time in silence. 66 Change for six fi'-pun' notes under yon sail," Jem answered. "How can you jest-" "Four tight sailors, a boy and-" he turned the sail from the face of a drowned seven year old girl, her hair like that of our own ailing little Ethel. Jem finished his pipe gloomily. I sat beside the spread sail in a reverie of selfish pity. "When you preached for the vicar, sir, last Sunday," presently said Jem, "you talked something like as if money was dirt. Perhaps it is. Perhaps that's dirt under the sail." The nurse was bringing Ethel in her arms towards us, and I motioned her away, although the child cried bitterly to come to me and her rough sailor friend. This morning her walk must not be upon the shore. "To be sure," said Jem, a little grimly, "it's not dirt when there's life in it. What a many sorts of change people may take out of five pounds." “What do you mean?" 66 "Why, there was all hands lost last night for want of a life-boat here. My son-in-law is coxswain of the nearest life-boat, but that's thirty miles from us. We've lots of wrecks but never a boat yet. There are boats wanted belike, in hundreds of other places where there are are only poor people ashore, though there are none the kinder rocks and shoals at sea, We can't set up a boat." "A few five pound notes," I said, "would not have done it." "Look here, sir," said Jem. My son-in-law, he's but a rough fisherman who knows his trade, a stout lad, and not stupid on salt water. He gets cight pounds a-year for being coxswain of the lifeboat at his place, and very proud he are for so to be. Once a quarter he goes out with the boat's crew, men like himself, for exercising in rough weather, and they get their day's pay too, as is fitting. They've a boat that'll do anything but go out walking ashore by itself, and that lives in a home of its own handy to the sca, ready to slip out on a wreck at a minute's notice. What he tells me is, which is the only learning he's got from books kept in the boat house, that when the money that has been spent in setting life-boats up about the coast is squared against the lives saved, there's a life for every four pounds seven shilings and two pence. That's the sum. So the more five pound notes go that way, the fewer of us will go this way," and he laid a wrinkled finger on the sail. "But you couldn't tell them anything from the pulpit, sir, except it wor in charity sermons, about what is to be bought with fi'-pun' notes. Ah, dear, I wish I had a lot of them!" This narrative will do its intended work if it teaches the reader to |