moonlight night, was a matter of no difficulty to Branscombians 'born and bred;' but when the winds raged from the sea, and the darkness was abroad on the face of the waters, the passage to the lighthouse would try the firmest nerve and surest foot. The old lighthouse-keeper had made it so often, night and morning, going and returning, that he cared but little whether the wind blew or the sun shone; but his daughters were not regular visitors, and though nimble and agile enough from long experience of hills, and dales, and rocks, the journey was one which might be considered formidable enough to warrant a great amount of triumph when accomplished without a mishap.

And now it occurs to me that my readers may possibly figure in their mind's eye, when I speak of Branscombe Lighthouse, a lofty and graceful building of massive masonry, such as Smeaton's Eddystone, or Robert Stevenson's on the Bell Rock. I suppose every boy or girl who reads these pages has heard at least of those two famous structures; the former built in 1759, towering fully 90 feet above the sea; the latter, erected in 1810, 115 feet high, and built on a rock that lies 12 feet under water. I suppose they will know the history of each; how Mr. Winstanley, who built a wooden Pharos on the Eddystone in 1699, was so confident in the firmness and excellence of his work, that he expressed a wish to be within its walls during the fiercest tempest that ever blew.

'Ay! I were fain, long to remain,
Watch in my tower to keep,

And tend my light in the stormiest night
That ever did move the deep.'

His wish was fulfilled on the night of November 27, 1703-a night of storm and horror, when many a good ship foundered out at sea, or was flung a wreck upon inhospitable shores. His wish was fulfilled, but at the cost of his life, and of the lives of his companions, the lighthouse being swept away by the raging waters.

And when the dawn, the dull, grey dawn,
Broke on the trembling town,

And men looked south to the harbour mouth,
The lighthouse tower was down ;-

Down in the deep, where he doth sleep

Who made it shine afar,

And then in the night that drown'd its light,

Set, with his pilot star.'

I suppose, too, they will know the legend connected with the Bell Rock; how that the abbots of the ancient monastery of Aberbrothock piously fixed thereon a loudresounding bell, and in such a manner that it rung at the bidding of the waves, which were thus made to give warning to the mariner of their own fury; and how that a wicked Dutch captain, in a fit of drunken excess, carried off the apparatus, and was afterwards lost upon the rock, he and all his crew. So Southey sings:

""Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar?

For yonder, methinks, should be the shore ;
Now where we are I cannot tell,

But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell!"

They hear no sound, the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shiv'ring shock,-
O heavens! it is the Inchcape Rock!

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
He cursed himself in his despair;
But the waves rush in on every side,

And the vessel sinks beneath the tide.'

No such histories as these attached, however, to the Witch's Rock, which derived its name from a wild tradition that it had at one time been the shelter of a woman gifted with the evil eye;' and which, probably, might have furnished an asylum, in the old dark days of ignorance, to some poor creature pursued by the superstitious malignity of her prejudiced neighbours. No such histories as these, I say, invested the Witch's Rock with undying interest, nor was it crowned by any such nobly

massive pile as the light tower of the Eddystone or the Bell Rock.

Branscombe Lighthouse was a rude, rough structure, consisting of two storeys or stages of stone, with an upper one of timber. There could be no doubt as to its solidity, but much as to its beauty. It was approached from the rock by a flight of wooden steps which led up to the second stage, where was found the lighthouse-keeper's resting-place. This chamber, like the lighthouse, was four-sided, with a stove, a couple of chairs, a plain deal table, a bench against the wall, two or three rude prints, and a shelf—the latter supporting a few books, an utensil or two, and a rusty fowling-piece. A staircase in one corner led to the topmost storey, or lightroom, which was protected by thick glass. Here were suspended a couple of oil lamps, with polished reflectors, set back to back, so as to diffuse their radiance in different directions; while, high above all, hung a mighty bell, which the lighthousekeeper rung during dense fogs, or when an adventurous vessel drew too near the perilous coast.

But it is time we return to Jessie Oglethorpe and her sister, whom we left lamenting over what they supposed to be their father's dead body. A minute or two's examination, indeed, convinced Jessie that her beloved father was not actually dead, but he had evidently received some terrible injury. She found it impossible to rouse him into consciousness. By her directions her sister flung handfuls of the salt water upon his face; he gave no signs of regaining his senses. She addressed him in the tenderest terms, but they evidently fell upon his ear unheard. He was as one lost to all the sights and sounds of life. It was true that he breathed, and that some warmth might be discerned in the languid limbs ; but otherwise his repose might have been taken for the motionless lethargy of death. Peggy could not realize all the greatness of the misfortune. She felt, however, that an unexpected evil had befallen her father, and she wept loudly.

Can you picture to yourself, dear reader, a scene more awful or affecting in all its details? There was not a star in the heavens to remind the mourners of God's everpresent mercy, not a glimpse of light kindled through the darkness, save where the long line of foam ran along the shore; the thunder of the billows echoed in the caverns of the cliff, and the rush of the wind swept wildly through the troubled atmosphere, as if some convulsion of nature was at hand. You could rather feel than see the gathering waters, with their glistening crests, surging onwards and ever onwards, increasing in height and volume as they drew near the cliffs, and breaking at length in a mass of curdled foam upon the echoing rocks. All was desolation and woe; and there, at the base of the rugged causeway, lay the lighthouse-keeper, motionless and insensible, and over him bent the forms of his weeping daughters.

The wind now brought up with it a fresh storm of rain, and Jessie, recovering her presence of mind, felt that she must gain some immediate shelter. Yet what could she do? Where could she go? Should she return to the village for assistance? But she knew that it would be almost impossible for her to find her way along the cliff path in the face of so terrible a tempest. Moreover, what would become of Peggy and her father during her absence? If the waters rose much higher, their position would be one of extreme danger. It occurred to her that she might haply find a refuge in one of the numerous caverns with which the cliff was tunnelled, and some of which, she knew, were secure enough from the inroad of the waves, being frequently made use of as hidingplaces and storerooms by the smugglers. Upon this thought she had almost resolved to act, when she suddenly remembered that the lighthouse lamps were still unkindled,—that no warning beams shone forth upon the angry sea!

"The lamps, Peggy! the lamps !'

'What mean you, Jessie?' sobbed her sister.

'The lamps! father's lamps!' continued Jessie, breathless with sudden anxiety; he has never failed to kindle them at sunset for full thirty years; an' now, oh, now they are unlighted!'

'But how could poor feyther help it? Is he—is he― dead, sister? Will he never speak again? Oh! if he would but say, "Peggy! Peggy!"'

'He is not dead, I am sure; though, mayhap, he is dying,-God help him and us! But think of the lamps! And in such a night, when no ship can come within a mile of shore without being dashed to pieces! I must— I will light father's lamps !'

Oh, Jessie, how will you ever get to the lighthouse? And what will you do with me and feyther?'

'You must come with me, Peggy, and we must carry father. Yes; let me think. It is not far along the causeway, and I feel I can do anything to-night to save father's good name, and help the poor mariners out at sea. What can have happened to him? Did he fall, I wonder, from the causeway? But no; he is too accustomed to the rocks. Could Dark Dick have- ? Let us not tarry, however. Take you the lantern, Peggy; and oh! be careful how you tread a single step. Father in heaven, help us in our hour of need! Say you a prayer, Peggy, as you go along, and mayhap a Hand that we see not will guide us, and an Arm that is mighty to save will sustain us!'

Encouraging her sister with fond words, and occasionally repeating a consoling text from that holy book which is the Christian's stay and support in the darkness and the sorrow, the brave girl contrived to raise her father's body in her arms, and by a great effort to ascend the causeway. Once safe upon the ridge, it seemed to her as if the most arduous part of her self-imposed task were ended; but the exertion had almost overpowered her, and she was constrained to pause for a few minutes and relieve her panting bosom. Peggy clung trembling to her sister's side; for the violence of the wind almost