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A STRANDED SHIP: A STORY OF SEA AND SHORE.

By L. OLARKK DAVIS.

PART 111. (Coktinwsd.)

Thk life boats were hurriedly run down to the shore, ns quickly manned, and a down brawny fishermen stood by, ready to launch them when tho littlo craft struck tho bar. But she did not strike at all. She was suddenly put hard to windward, the gale caught tho few yards of the mainsail still unfurled about the peak, she obeyed the hand at the helm, and whllo the eager Crowd looked On and held their breath while a hundred seconds might be t jld off, tho yacht lifted up hor bow again, struck fcho crest of tho last defeated broakor, plunged and roso and plunged and rose, lind tho next instant sailed quietly into the Unruffled surfaco of tho river. Without 4ny scorning hasto or 'excitement she was battened down ; after some trunks and b'&ggago woro brought up from below, her shattered sails were furled, her ™ggl«R cut away, hor decks cleared, her ■yawl was launched, tho luggage stowed into it, and then tho crow and tho blua-coatcd ekxlpr landed. ( Ho was mot by tho wrecking-master, who extonded his brawny hand in token of welcome and fellowship, for the old follow had been a sailor bofore the other was born.

' Thanks for your timely signal, Captain. Tho littlo Argo would scarcoly havo brought ua safely to shoro without it; and in that caae tho golden fleece would liavo been altogether lost to mo, I am afraid." "I dunno about that Qeoce, Cap'en, but I do know you've just saved your bacon, and although I say it to your face, which I shouldn't, you'ro a bravo fellow, and I'd like to shake hands agen if you don't mind it; also, while you're hero, I'd like it mightily if you'd mako my house your own, just to stay at or come and go to, as you like; a bed's better nor a hammock any time, and similarly, dry land better nor Watorj but," said the Captain, "why in tnuttdbt did you, a peart enough sailor as 1 vo seen today, run onto a lco-shor'o fn a not-easier?"

it,'! T1''c last tliing first, then, Captain, aneyAchthas sottled six inches since she crossed that last breaker; that strained and hammered her to death ; but sho wna sinking boforo the galo came on, and I ran on a lcoshoro, thinking only of benching hor as a desperate clianco for life; just then I saw your inlet horo, niado for it, got lay course by your signal, and hero I nm, and there's my hand, and I will take your bed, and again a thousand thanks to you for my safety."

"You ought to thank God for it, young man ; for whon tho soa roso up to swallow you alive, it was His hand, not mine, that parted the waters and delivered you." • "I do thank God," the sailor said, " with all my heart, my friend, and " Something just then blanched tho bravo young fellow's faco whiter than tho threatened death out there had done. What was it? What had stopped the ready current of his talk, cutting short his speech ? What was it that made his hand tremble up to his mouth in that weak, uncertain way? Not anything in the old Captain's manner; not the soft, brown eyes of the girl, timidly bent upon him, not the quiet, controlled eyes of the man on \Vhose arm she lamed. Yot, for a hurried moment, ho -was cowed, as no more physical danger could have done; he seemed to the girl to have suddenly lost his height of stature and bravery of bearing ; to shrink and tremble before the man at her -Me. She looked alternately into thoir faces for an answer to hU curious behaviour ; but when she turned to the Professor, the usual grave, reticent smile was on his lips, and if the two mon had ever mot before, there was no sign of it in the I'rofessoi's eyea, which looted dully into the eyes of tho sailor, absent of moaning or re> cognition, _ When, still perplexed at the unsolved riddle, she turned again to the other man, he was shaking hands gayly enough with the old Wrecking-master; then he gave some directions quietly and coolly to the crew about his luggago and the sinking yacht. HU face was turned fully toward her, and she noticed that the pallor and fright Were gone from it; that his manner was easy and possessed* that, as he looked toward her, there was a bright, boyish (imilO il» bu ayaa ; -<i<ul n'kan Pji.t«i„ H--—•• f resented Mr Luke Connor to her and the rofessor, the two men gravely saluted each' other after the fashion of gentlemen, and she noticed the bits of talk succeeding had nothing different in them from other bits of talk likely to chance between two intelligent persons whon introduced to each other.

"We must congratulate you on your escape," the Profosaor said. "Tt our vessel is sinking, I think jou told tho Captain." "Yos, she leaked badly before, but that last thumping she got in the inlet was too much for her. She will be gone in an hour, if she is not already aground." " Theu," said Margaret, her rare, sweet snile mocking tho gravely spoken words, "I aii afraid the modem Jason will have all the dangers of the voyage and pursuit, without finding the treasure he seeks." Luke Connor looked far out to sea as the jtirl stopped speaking, as if he weighed the dangers he had passed, before ho answered her.

"I am not so suns of tbat," he said pro."Mitly. " The gods of to-day, I fancy, a-re a3 vigilant aud strong as those elder ones j indeed, I am not sure they are not the sime, and who knows that they did not ssnd the new Argo there, to this shore, knowing that here the modern Jason might find what lie sought? Adventurer? are silling to-day over every eea in search of it; one is 'hunting it in the mines of California or Australia, another in India or Japan, but everybody 13 hunting it somewhere. I think the golden fleece of to clay hoply another name for happiness, and I am as likely to find it here aa elsewhere." The man's voice had grown low and solemn «nd prophetic, and the girl, noticing his changed manner, looked at him curiously. If then he bad given one bold glance into the pure brown eyes before him, or had dared to cast a single admiring look at her, or at the bright masses of the golden hair waving so luxuriantly about her neck and face, she would have caught the hidden sense of his meaning, and if she had, she would have avoided him for ever after. But hie eyeß did not once meet hers, they being still bent far out at sea; aad the girl, too simple and true to bo suspicious or to take alarm, only-simply wondered where, among the melancholy groves of that grim shore, the golden prize might hang. , But the Professor, quicker of thought than she, *nd more suspicious too, knew that Margaret had curiously attracted Luke Connor, and that the tawny hair floating about her form typified to the reckless sailor Jason's fabled fleece. The Argo had settled at flood tide, but her deck still showed above the surface of the shallow river. "She lies safe enough there." Luke said. "If you think her traps worth the trouble, she is yours to dismantle, Captain Brown, but her hull is sprained and thumped to pieces." He looked back regretfully at the sunken wreck. They hai been . gooi frisnds together, the man and bis boat. If, as he said, the golden fleece was only another name for happiness, he had sought that in many places in his yacht. They had shared a good many dangers, lived true, brave lives together, struggling and wrestling with tempest and eea, aud now the old Argo lay thero in that hole of a river, suuk and worthless. It had been a bettor life than any he knew on shore. That was a fever of dissipation, a round of pleasure that was unwholesome and vile. The 'only love he knew there was the love- that.he hud bought. The lips <hat khsed tlie p re brow of Psyche had kissed r,o pure lips since ; the hand made bloody on thatlonga»o commencement right had never been cftan again, he morbidly fancied Yet in every hour of (his man's pluogts into vice and wretchedness, his; true, noblir self cii°d out for tom;thing better—for the sweet, manly life be had once known-for friendship and love. But he knew that men looked coldly on him ; that fathers of pure girls never asked him to their houses ; that mixed' with the sincerest interest men ever'showedhim, there was. more than onehalf morbid curiosity. He knew, when he met his former friends fare to iac.n that jf they, noticed him at all, which few did, they we quietly, wondering, us they pa=sed on their opposite way, how a murderer must feel; what must be the daily life of a man who has escaped hangit'g, or what distempered fancies oi the murdered victim tortured him by nurht. If he could have answered them at all,te would have said that no thought of being hanged that no ghost of the dead man who had wronged his sister, overcame to him by day or night. But while no glioat over haunted him, sleeping or waking, the awful crime of which his soul stood guilty was like a second self, clinging close as hia

Bkin, urging him forever into the Lethe of riot and dissipation. He only lived to forget, to get rid for awhile of himself; and the pity of it all was, that under the crust of vice that was on it, there was a true, manly, noble self, tull ef generous impulses, capablo of heroic achievements, worthy of good men's honour and affectionate regard ; but indoed it was true, he had buried it all very deop, so that men went on remembering hia crime, after they should have forgiven and forgotten tho actors in it. While tho men whom he had known in that old, happier time placed a gulf, im* possible to bridge over, bjtween him and them, it was curious that women and little children, with their pure, unerring instincts', came close to and loved the man. It might have been partly hiti genuine, hearty manner, or his superb beauty, alive and magnetic with health and strength, or his free thought and free speech that beguiled them and won their hearts ; but Whatever it was, women and childron had been vory tender of his faults and loving of Luke Connor. As ho walked beside Margaret Daunton from the beach to tho farm-house, his instincts telling him how pure and gentle a woman shs was, his senses showing him how beautiful and intelligent she was he felt as he had never dono bofore; his crime weighed heavily upon him, and he knew with deadly certainty that tho once sweet wattw of life that he had muddied ho must drink to the end ; that a puro woman, saintly in thought and deed, was not for him to gather to his breast. Other nion, with clean hands and unsullied name, might strive to win, mid some one to marry her : but ho alono was shut out and under the ban.

In that same hour, if tho old Argo, lying a sunken, worthless wreck in the river there, could have boon made seaworthy again, ho would have plunged once more into tho breakers with her, no mattor how the bar threatened, nor what storms prevailed or winds blow. Better the sudden death out yondor than to live to bear this girl's reproach. It was not that aho had already become essential to him, but it waa natural that a man cut off from white

bread for many long years should loathe tho black loaf for ever held to his lips, and hunger for tho other) or that a barefooted beggar, passing the boundaries of a fair

domain) should pauso for awhile to behold how fair it was, and thon to wish that the title to it should be inado clear to him and his heirs forever ; especially natural would it scorn if tho beggar s tastes litted him to enjoy such an estate. He, Luke Connor, was the.man who had oaten only of tho black bread of bought, vicious ploasuros, whoso nature cried out hungrily for better food ; ho wna the barefooted beggar, garing ovor tho wall of a beautiful domain, whoso fruitful acres stretched away to the boh and sky lino-n wall which ho might nevor cross, lest tho ory of the keener be raiicd against him, and he bo hunted down.

He felt that ho was not a man while he could not say to this girl's mother, "Give mo your child, for 1 love her." Other mwi might go t> her, telling tho reverential love they felt, but ho never might. Ho could never do that; his hands were bloody ; and if it were right for tho State, or Justice, to take life at all, he had no right to his life oven. It had been saved, and the Stato, or Justico, cheated out of it by a quibblo, a lawyer's shrewd eloquence, or tho whim of a soft-heartod jury ; so he felt that he boro his lifo oven under a false pretence, and that it had been forfeit long ago. Yet no man loved life better than he loved h is. It was sweot and good to him from tho rising to the setting of tho sun ; and no man would have fought more desperately to preserve it, if a struggle came. But it oould never be a full man's life, he thought, unless he might love and marry as other men could. He knew the danger boforo him when it was only an hour old, but ho did not flee from it. Let the surly keeper come, he said ; but he would first see the beautiful fields, the long, dim paths, the friendly shadows of the trees, smell tho fragrance of tho flowers and hear the songs of birds and plash of fountain.". Lot the keeper come; the beggar would have climbed tho wall and soon with his own eyes how broad and fair tho landscape was, ani as ho was turned out again to wander over the rough highways, eating his black bread, what he had scon and heard would be a

ploasant and happy memory to him for ever. So, Luke Connor resolved to linger for a day or two, with tho beautiful womani under tho old wrecking-master's roof, and then he would go back' to the love that could be bought and pleasures that bury self and bring forgetfufnoss. Bat he never would forget that he had 'seen Mar-, faret Daunton, and that for a day or two c had stood up before her, accounted worthy of her regard r.nd tiuu»— _ v - »>_A iv ° o - "-- - J-j ur wo, nor yet afte* many days. He too, after long, rough years, sat down by the Sweet waters and ats of the blissful lotus, which brought dreamful eaae and forget/illness of crime and trouble.

He sent to town to have his horses brought; down he discarded his sailor's suit, and robed himself bravely, as a, man does who wishes to appear at his best in the eyes of the woman he loves.

Tho story of that old farm-house was repeating itself at every watoring-placo, large and small, along tho whole Atlantic coast, and at every summer retreat in mountain or valley. The old, old story, for ever beautiful and new, of two people of opposite ccx coming directly to believe that " all for love, and the world well lost" i 3 tho only true religion. Margaret Daunton -and Luke Connor had learned that faith on the eands, that day by the soa, I think ; but then they only saw as in a glass, darkly ; and now, after these many u-iys of rides and walks and sunset wanderings they would have died at the stako for it bravely as any bigot of the olden limo for hia higher creed. This was all very bad for the grave old Professor indeed. He had made a terrible mistake of it. If he had only, in those old days at home, been lees blind, less devoted to his etupid books, less interested in hU Greek poetry and College duties ; if he had only loved his Hellenic heroines less, and cared more for the beautiful, loving girl whom his stupid affection called sister !

But he had been so secure in his possession of the yellow-haired little girl that he had been in no hurry to fall in love with and marry her. There, at home, his dear old mother played house-dog, keeping watch and ward at the gate, driving all poachers away ; but here, in this summer holiday,-, came this barefooted beggar, Luke Connor, claiming the fair domain, aud making out a good title to it, too.

He knew that he had only to utter one word into the girl's ear to roako her send the beggar all to sea again; to make fcer great, brown eyes dilate with horror; to make her Bbrinic appalled from his touch. But would he say it»that was the question. What was his duty? Was it the devil of selfishness that tempted him to go to the girl with Luke Connor's etory, or was ifc solely a real desire for her completest happiness that prompted him to telLher the man was a murderer, a debauchee ? He knew the coarse delights, the vices and sloughs of vileeeas Connor had grovelled in for a good many years past. Was he fit to marry with such a woman as Margaret, a woman Bweet and saintly as few women were ? He might let the old crime go, and be silent about it. God knew there was sufficient provocation for that, the Professor thought. He csuld scarcely blame the man tor that; besides, the man was mad when he did it. But, outside of that, was Luke Connor not tit to be Margaret's husband I —and even if he could forget and forgive it, would others do so? If they ever married, would not the scorn and gibe follow Margaret as surely as it had followed him? And how could he save her at all, if he kept that old, foul tale of murder back ? He thought it over for a long time, weighing the matter coolly in his mind. If he told her—well ? Then the beggar, Luke Connor, with hie altogether wrecked, miserable life, would harry back to liis old existence of bought em, aud Margaret would Tjo glad that he had saved her from siii and ignominy of being a murdorer'a wife, of being the mother of a murderer's children. And for bimeelf ? Had he a right to think of himself at all, just then ? Ho had, for he, too, loved Margaret; and if ehe married with Luke Connor, where would he carry his wreck of life? Would his books, his college, his Hellenic heroines supply her place in his vacant home in all the coming Yet look at it as he would, the hightoned gentleman and scholar shrank from the task of telling her. He could not help thinking that this young fellow's lines had fallen in lough places; that if he had dropped out of good men's graces, he had been sorely tempted to his fall; and now, just as Connor's fcot. had touched solid ground, and his soul tasted happiness, he was about to knock it all from under his feet and send him back into the slough again. Tho inoro the Pi-qfeseor looked at it, the more he did not like it. It waa a mean bit of business for any man to do, he eaid. He began to doubt if happiness would be worth the purchase at that price —but, then, her happihess, he asked himself. Might that not be worth paying much for to secure? lie Waa nut certain of that; women. were curious in their likea and dislikes. After all, what had Conner done to commend -himself to Margaret*

favour? He had simply stood up like a man in an ugly swaßh of sea, and successfully run his yacht into smooth water. Success counts so much with women, thought the Professor.

But what was it Margaret had eaid under her breath that day, while the tears wet her cheeks, as she caw Luke Connor guiding his sinking, battered boat through the breakers ? Only this: "It would be so easy, if the time had come, to die by the side of a brave man like that." Ah I Professor, we old fellows, who have wives and daughters, and who have lost the fight, as our shabby coats and hair turned prematurely grey bear witness, know that success counts but little in a women's love—that her sublimest hero is the husband, lover, or son who has dared the battle, and when it was over has left the field, not victorious, but scarred and defeated.

The Professor's mother was not a quick old lady, and never hurried to conclusions by too rapid a course; yet even Bhe, who from the nour he took Margaret Daunton home, after her father's funeral, promising to be a mother to the girl, and sealing her promise to her, as she crossed the threshold of the vacant house, with a solemn, silent prayer to God, saying, " As I deal with her, Almighty Father, bo deal Thou with me, now and for ever"—even she, blind and old and simple as sho was, saw that Margaret and tho sailor of the Argo were a good deal together, and that Margaret showed sho liked to bo with him more than the had sver liked to be with the Professor. But she was not alarmed by it at all. She know that her son would marry Margaret in his own good time—he was tho sultan to command, and Margaret the handmaiden to picft up tho glove, whonevor ho cho.se to cast it to hor; and strangers might come and go, but Margaret would be still hor son's. Of that there could bo

no doubt—sho had settled that in hor own

mind, to her own intense satisfaction, long ago. Yet she was rather voxed that they had come to this public place at all; undoubtedly it was pleasant enough ! «ho liked the greon Holds, tho woods, tho cliffs, tho roar of the sea, tho danh of tho waves, and to watch the sun fado away into the crimson tide; and cortninly the poople were agreeable poople ; but it was the girl's first lobk at tap world, and young girls grew romsiitio by tho sea, and altogether it might distract her fancy for awhile. Indeed tho old lady thought so long.about it as aha dozed in her chair on tho porch that sunny afternoon that she resolved she would talk to Albort about tho mattor.

Tho l'rofossor had been, out all tho afternoon for a long, quiot walk on tho beach. He had wanted to be alone, whero ho could think over this matter of his duty to Margaret nndisturbed, and settle it. When he came back to tho house, it was all sottled— the Professor had decided. But hia decision was a difleront ono from that which

he had adopted on tho beach. In tho long dim path of tho woods, nonr the farm-houso, ho had come npon Margarot and Luke Connor walking siowly toward him, rapt in themsslvis, and unmindful of anything outside of their own belongings ; tho sod beneath his feet was soft and yielding, his step was noisoloss ; and thoy, unconscious of his prceonoo, had corao so near that, without hearing thoir words at all, ho had heard the low, sweet murmur of Maigaret's voice, and in her face he saw a light and glow of quiet happiness that he had never seen there before. Then the grave old Profesaer, soroly wounded, botook himself and the wreck of his lifo into tho deeper shadow of tho sombre pines, and, stealing silently away, he began again to think it over, growing suddonly conscious of something having been lost'out of his life, which could never come again, He eat there a long while, until the sun had gone down behind tho cliff*, leaving sea and Bky filled with its crimson splendor; then he settlod it all differently again, and, finally, wont slowly along to his mothor's chamber, where he fat down beside h«r, with an awful shadow on his honest old face, which she. dull and slow ac she was, quickly noted. But «he began a long way off, after the fashion of mothers whose tender fingers ore for ever prying down into the hurt, locked heitrte of children.

" You are tired, Albert," she said.

" Did you walk all tho way to the wreck, of tho Osprey ?" " All the way, mother—and back.' ho replied/ slowly and wearily; for he know what was coming, and .wanted time. "The old ship lies high and dry, half embedded in the sands, too strained, I thllikj ever to sail the seas again."

"And can an old ship, Albert, stranded and broken, make your face like that ? The shore lies thick with the whitening skeletons of noble ships, which you havoiaeen a hull* dred time*, and jested at."

wrecka"are"siß!n lbia fißhw^toW-utAMaej seem unreal as fables f but the Osproy came fin only yesterday, and at the station the wreckers showed me, lying under an old sail, the figures of the Captain and his young wife—a girl with fair hair and brown »yoa, not unlike our Margaret. When they wore last seen alive together upon the ship, the wreckers said they stood looking shoreward, watching the launching of the lifeboat, thinking, no doubt, that their deliverance was near at hand; but before it left the shore, a wave swopt over the ship and hurled them into the sea. A momont before, sho had taken her littlo baby from her broast, and hold it up in her arms, as if, by that means, to plead with the wreckers on the shore to hasten to their rescue. When the two bodies came ashore this morning, thoy were found lying but a few feet apart, with their faces turned toward each other. I said sho wns like our Margaret. Sho was; she had the came pure face, the same sunny hair,' the same dainty look of gentlo womanhood. It was a sad sight, mother." It had beon v. sad sight, sadder to tho man than he told ; for, eeeing this dead semblance of the woman ho loved lying under the coarse sail and thinking of the easy possibility of Margaret be coming Luke Connor's wife, bo could not bo ceitnin that this dead woman's fate would not be a better, kindlier fate for her; not quite sure that it would not be better for Margaret to be washed upon the shore'dead at his feet, than to marry that man. Then he had gone up frOm the sea, and, from the dead it had early given up. resolved to tell Margaret the worst he know of Connor; but when ho saw them together in the woods, hearing the low, tender murmur of her voice, and seeing the bright, buoyant look in her eyes, that was there never before, he . had known that already ho was too late, tliat ehe already lovod him, and that, to have told her then, would only have made her cling the closer to the ruined man on whom the old, old curse had fallen. There was a long silence between the mother and son. Sho thought tenderly of the dead woman, who had taken her baby from her breast to inspire the wreckers, in her peril of death, lying now under the coarse sail, watched over by the grim coastmen at the station. He thought of the living girL whose life, he fancied, was more completely wrecked than if she were lying dead among the sands. Mrs Daunton's next question startled him. !' ■ "Do you know this young sailor, Luke Connor ?" she asked. "Do I know Luke Connor?" Daunton was thrown off guard, and parried for time. " You mean the-man who came into the in-

let with his yacht?" . ■ "Yes Do you know him ?" There was a moment's pause, then the Professor looked fairly into his old mother a eyes, and did what he had never done before in all his life—he.lied to hor.

"No mother," he said, slowly and deliberately, as if weighing, the meaning of every word ; "no, mother, Ido not know "I wish you did, Albert; I wish you did. lam growing old faat now. I am Joeing memory and sight. I like the young man, and I would rather not. Sometimes I feel as if I had seen him before, and again his name sounds familiar to me ac tny own, and always connected with something bad. But I never can recall where I have Been his face, nor remember how that iiame is as?ociatcd with the record of some ugly crime in my mind. But it is, and I wish you knew him. He is a great deal with your Margaret." Without looking up at all, the Professor knew that the keen giey eyes of the old lady were watching the effect of those last words upon him. He reached out his hand toherß,and,layingonewithintheotber,Biiuled as he said, "My Margaret, mother ! Why mine ? She is your daughter and my sister; so let us speak of her as our Margarets not mine!,' ' . A quick shade of alarm passed over the old lady's face, despite his frank, assuring Btnile. "My son, have you never thoiißht, n[ Margaret I).-.nnton in any way than aa your ooiifsin—as gome-thing nearer and dearer than couein or sister—as your

She was trying the honest old fellow very hard just then, bub he swallowed a big lump that bad got into his throat, and, taking the trembling old hand into bis own, he agaiu, for the second time in life, looked ,iuto his mother's face, and deliberately lied to her. He fancied it wiul becoming easier now, when her happiness was likewise* involved iv the concealment of tho truth. ■< "No, mother, I have never thoughti 01 Margaret in any other relationship than M.«t »f ■ aiatttr of wlwwo I was very fond.

She went to him, and laid her old white head on his breast, with a great sense of loss and terror in her face, and in the trembling figure and voice. " Oh, my son, my son!" she cried; "it has been my one thought and plan of life. I have daily and nightly prayed God to spare my life long enough to let me &cc her your wife. I have prayed that he would let you two together lay me away at the last. Is there no hope for it—no chance that you will yet change your mind ? She is better, nobler, more beautiful than other women are, and I hay« only lived in the hope to mako her worthy to bo my son's wife. Was all my loving labour lost f Is there no chance, Albeit 1" "No, mother," he said, "there is no chance. She has found a husband, younger and better and more suited to her, elsewhere. She already loves this sailor, Luke Coiinbr. I saw it in her face to-day " She stood up and confronted him, her lips quivering, her fingors nervously windirig themselves about his own. " You do not mean," she said, her voice grown suddenly husky and broken, " you do not mean that Margaret loves that man? No, no, you fancied it. You know you are cjuick to fancy harm coming to her or me j but nothing so horrible as that could be true. My memory—every thing—eeomsgoing from me; but oh, Albert, help mo to remember the crime that belongs to a name like his. Margaret must be told. We must savo her. VVe must go away from hero at once ; help me to do what is right. Margaret is yours, I tell you ; I gave her to you years and years ago, when she was only a child in my arms. Help mo, Albert I" It was piteous to soo so Rontlo and oalm a life as hers had been so troublod as it grow towards tho end, pitooua to poo its one hope beaten down an t trampled undor foot, piteous to see her anguish and pain at her great loss ; but her son seated her in hor ohaif, resting his hands' tonderly on her breast, as he said, " Mother, you must hoar mo now. I cannot help you to what you want. It is too late; the evil has already fallon upon us. Margaret loves Luke Connor today well onou^h to taks his crime, if ho has a crime, upon hersolf -to. sharo with him for ever his dishonoured name—if it is dishonoured. We must give her up to him, not for his sako but for hot own."

" But you j Albert ? —what of youruolf, for ■ou—you loved her J" "It docs not matter, mothor. I would

not lovo hor at all, if I loved myself hotter," tho poor old follow eaid, wearily. '' I have you and my home and my work. Those havo always beon enough for mo—thoy will bo enough now. Our care must be no hint to hor against tho honour of the man she loves—no roproach nor tuapicionagainsthim from us. If calumny or unpalatable truth touches him, neither muat come from ug. I doubt if ha has spoken to Hor yot. Let us wait and be Tery tender with hor, for she has bocn tho stoady light and warmth of home to both of us.

" If this 18 true, my eon, that you havo told me," who said, "then God holp u» all. These are da>k, Btormy days coming to me at the end. But I will not spoak of my trouble to hor; send her in to me, lam vory tirod, and noed hor."

When the Professor wont out into tho orchard whore Margaret was, ho looked liko a very old man—indeed, like a man on whom affliction had fallen heavily, suddenly robbing him of youth and purpose. At the gate the old wrecking-master accosted him. "You're ailing, Professor," ho said. "These nor'castors nflect people onuted to 'em, sometimes. Now, they have affected you, and you aren't well. Not a bit of it." " You mistake, Captain Brown. lam well enough, but tired. I wulked along tho coast to the wreck of the Osprey, and tho sands were heavy." The Professor wanted to be alone, and would have passed on, but the old Captain was inclined, just then, to hear himself talk, and fanoiod the Professor wanted to hoar him too. Tho latter stopped courteously to listen to what the wrocker had to say. " And so you walked all the way up there to tho wreck, oh ? Well, now, its curious how strangers to these parts will hunker after wrecks, and iitories of 'em, but thoy dot Now, Professor, it wasn't a pleasant sight to see that young Woman a-lying there, and him beside her' No, I-know it wasn't. > But wo sco a heap of such sights, an' you might think, now, it would harden us liko, but it don't. Now, may bo you don't think it, but no woman would caro for that poorbody thero, tondor a3 thorn wreokers. They're mon, they aro. But that isn't what hurts 'em most, though. What hurts them men is to see a crew, with a woman or a baby among 'em, cling to a ship's sides, and the winds howling like devils-about 'em and the big waves rolling up to 'cm, hungry like to drag 'em all into tho soa, and for thorn men to stand thero on tho shore, helpless, abd knowinc that, no lilVbrmf. as vhhm can't save em, after awlulo, dropone by one into the sea. Now, Professor, if this Government of ours could afford it, which it can't you know, it would havo a mortar down here, and wo could (ire a lino to them chips oasy enough ; but Government is too poor, you see. Seeing pooplo calling on as to save 'gm when we can't, is what hurts us wreckers, and makes wreckin' in onpleasent business to follor; but then we do save lots

that never would be saved only for us, and that makes it pleasant again, you sco." While the old wrecker, loaninrr on tho gate, talked on monotonously, tho Professor was looking out seaward, watching the lirst signs of a coining Btorm. "This wind is getting fresher, I think, Captain!" ho asked.

"Surely. It'll bo a hurricano be'orc morning; but they'll all f,ivo this bit ol devil's coast a wido berth to-bight. It's when it comes up in a minute liko, and takes'em unawares that they come emash-

ing onto it; but you sec, Professor, they've got warning to-night." The Captain, casting a lust glance at the threatening fky, went indoors; and tlio Professor, finding Margaret, serf her. into Mrs Daunton, and then started olTfornlong walk along the river-shore.

(To be Continued.)

A Tux ou Bachelors

It is st riously proposed in the French Hevate to levy a tax upon bachelors. At the first blush this may seem a rather stupid irao ticle joko on the part of some unusually tacetiaus moinber, but in reality it is not no. If the measure passes thero it is- no doubt that Franco's revenues will be largely increased. For the real pnrpose of the bil'i which is to make men marry whether thoy like it or not, will be attained. It is well to insist once more that the is drawn up in all sober earnest, Its preamble reads some what "as follows :-—" Considering the growing decrease of the population in France, it has become necessary to impose a tax, upon all single persons over — years' of age of the male sex.'' My informant, who gives me this little scrap of news, does not tell me anything more. One naturally asks oneself whether the tax will bo indiscriminately claimed from rich and poor alike—from the Adoniß who enjoys his single blesfednees, from the Caliban who hates it. It ig too early in the day to judge of tho effect it will produce upon tho bachelor from conviction. As for tho dowerless spinster, it is doubtful whether she will ftherish any illusions -with with regard to it. She knows full well that she will not be the one to benefit. " After al1," said a bachelor jestcrday, "the tax, if tax there be, can only be regula'ed by one's income, and one's household expenses never are." The argument is not an incconelusive one, though it be folly to pretend that want of means prevents the majority of young men in France from marrying. The cases causeß of this inclination lie far deeper and are far more difficult of discussion in an English nowspaper. They may, however, .be slightly touched upon without offending the proprietors, No Frenchmen under 25 years can marry without the concent of parents. This concent will be invariably withheld if the girl whom he proposes to make his wife is portionless. It matters,little onotigh whether the girl I c honest, well educated, aud generally unobjectable. The aspirant Benedick may not hare a penuy werewith to blws himFelf. It will be all the more reason for hie parents insisting upon a good lniftch, On the other hand, if the girl be well provided for, he kinsfolk will net only let her marry unless ohe man'=i marriage portion be in proportion to hers, but (hey will effectually prevent all "po:sibility_ of her making acquaintance of a financial detrimental. One may depend upon one thing in. France, wl)ich is this—than an invitation to a private ball or dinuer party has been preceded by an inquiry into the finaucial position of the recipient of tuch an in.ititation which for thoroughness will beat anything and everything that the moot exporionrod 'detective in London or ' Paris oniild arnompliph. Under those circumstances would it not bo more practicle to levy a tax upon the parents possessing marriageable children of both sexes '! Even this, however, would not produce the d( sired elect, because rather than give their tons and daughtera without therequisite dowiy, the parents would grumblingly submit to be mulcted.—" Globe."

£100 Rewaud.—They ourd all diseases of Uie alomueli, bovvolß. bluud, Uvur, uurvos, uud kid new. and £100 will be paid for a case they will not cure or help, or for anything impure or Injurious found in them—Hop Bittera. Test it. Bead. -

Permanent link to this item

https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/AS18841206.2.19

Bibliographic details

Auckland Star, Volume XXVI, Issue 4531, 6 December 1884, Page 3

Word Count
6,847

A STRANDED SHIP: A STORY OF SEA AND SHORE. Auckland Star, Volume XXVI, Issue 4531, 6 December 1884, Page 3

A STRANDED SHIP: A STORY OF SEA AND SHORE. Auckland Star, Volume XXVI, Issue 4531, 6 December 1884, Page 3

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