her mind of anxiety. Still, they were all very glad when the village doctor pronounced it possible for Susan, with help, to get to the boat, and that she might try to return home on the first fine day.

It seemed as if heaven sent one fitted to the purpose. The sea was smooth, the sky clear, the air soft and warm. For the first time Ephraim infringed on a regulation of the government, and decided to take his man with him, both leaving the island together. Both would be needed to get Susan into the boat, and it also seemed very desirable to bring over some stores for the winter. John could go to the town, while he prepared Susan for the journey. Jenny arranged cushions and blankets in the boat for her mother's comfort, and watched them leave the island without an anxious thought that she was alone and unprotected upon it. She supposed two hours at the utmost would bring them back, and she set herself busily to work to prepare a nice dinner to welcome their return. Two hours passed, and Jenny began to look out for the returning boat, but in vain.

John had gone to the house where he should get the expected stores, but they had not arrived; he went on to the village for them. Various delays, and perhaps the dear delight of a little chat with his fellow-townsmen, whom he saw but seldom, kept him yet longer, and the sun had passed the meridian when he got back. Susan was all ready for the start, but as they looked out over the sea, a change was visible. The waters, so calm and blue in the morning, were growing dark and troubled; the wind began to blow wildly over the barren hills, and in a few moments a blinding snow-squall was upon them in all its fury.

"I must go," said Ephraim, as the appalling thought struck him that his return to the island might be cut off.

The two men hastened to the shore and got out their boat, but human arms and hearts and wills all struggled in vain against the wild fury of the storm. The little boat was tossed from wave to wave like an egg-shell, and the current was so strong against them that a short

struggle convinced them that if they succeeded in getting out of the cove it would drift them far out to sea. Ephraim Wright did not like to yield to obstacles, but he had met his match now; he must go back. To go on was almost surely to destroy his own life and his companion's. Yet in all his hard, toilsome life, he had never known a bitterer moment than when his foot touched the firm rock.

"I have failed in duty," he said to himself; "and I am punished."

Poor Jenny saw the gathering of the storm from the island before they did on the land, and as long as she could see she watched for some sign of the boat; but soon the thickly gathering snow shut out the land from her sight, and left her in utter solitude.

One thing she knew, that her father would make an attempt to come home. She was as sure that he had started as if she had seen him, and as she heard the constantly increasing tumult of the winds and the waves, and found that wind and tide and current were all against him, she was forced to the dreadful

conclusion that the boat must be driven out to sea, and that it was impossible that it should not be swallowed up in the raging waters.

"I shall never see my father again," was her first thought. "Dear, dear mother," was her second. But as the deadly faintness of despair was creeping over her, there flashed another thought into her mind - the light! O God! if that should fail on such a night. No weakness now, it seemed as if the sense of duty were like an iron brace to her soul. One prayerful thought for help and strength, and Jenny began her preparations for the night. She carried up an extra can of oil, with the anxious fear of a possible failure of supply; she took out another chimney ready for use, lest she might awkwardly break one; she was careful to make a pot of strong coffee for herself, that if her strength failed she might have refreshment at hand. As the faithful clock told her the hour of sunset approached, she closed up the house, barred the windows against the storm, — there was little fear of other intruders to-night,—and with her lantern

in her hand climbed for the last time the tower stairs, to begin her lonely watch. What memories came over her as she wound slowly up, of the many nights when she had climbed these tower-stairs, first clinging to her father's hand, but of late feeling that she must rather relieve and help him. Then her wild fancy strayed on to every possibility of his fate, to all that must follow on his death; she pictured to herself every detail of the search for the body, of the funeral, and then what she and Susan must do. But she crowded these thoughts back with stern will," God knows the future, to-night my duty is clear."

She wound up the heavy sinker; then with steady hand she lighted the three rows of wick, on opposite sides, as she had seen her father do. Slowly the little points of flame spread. Then with trembling hand she placed over it the tall glass chimney, which she had so often seen shivered to pieces in the new assistant's unskilful hands; but it was safely done now, and as the light grew brighter and brighter, and began to fill the lantern with its