wave.

The sisters clung to their mother; the three were standing now, driven farther and farther back by every advancing The little fishing-boats had reached the shore; their recent occupants, as they stood on the verge of the foaming sea, with their large hats partially flapped over their faces, their strange leggings, and their whole appearance so unlike anything earthly, might have been mistaken for products of the mighty deep, hurled on shore by the fury of a dashing wave.

Then darkness came on; but still they watched the fearful lightning rushing downwards on the sea, as if the awful messenger of some dread tidings to the depths beneath. They did not speak-what they felt was too vast for utterance; but they clung closer and closer together, as the flashes continuing in rapid succession to illuminate the roaring sea, rendered it at intervals distinct as in the sunlight. It raged all night. They could not rest; they continued to watch from the windows of the little cottage, till with the dawn of morning a change came o'er the spirit of the scene."

66

When next they looked upon that sea the sun was shining —not a ripple disturbed its smooth surface-not a cloud was in the atmosphere: all was serene, and the morning air was pure and fresh as when first suffused over earth.

That night there was an awful shipwreck. They who had dared to enter the life-boat had no power to contend against the fury of the raging element, and, with the vessel they had left, were hurled into that vasty deep never to be heard of more. One only was saved; that one had clung to a fragment of the sinking ship, and, dashed on the beach, lay prostrate and insensible: long was it till he became conscious of his resurrection from a grave of deep waters.

"And this is England!" England, that he had quitted so

many years ago! He had left it with his conscience oppressed by a crime-he returned to it an outcast, solitary and unknown. And there he was; he stood amid the ruins of an old church, and looked out upon the sea. "Yes, this is England!"

CHAPTER XXXIX.

EVENING is come again. Mrs. Maitland and Helen, overpowered by the long watch of the preceding night, were reclining on the sofa. Edith thought they slept. She had been reading; but, putting down her book,-the sea looked so calmly beautiful that she longed to go on the beach,— she opened the door gently, and went out. It was the first solitary walk she had taken. In such a scene as this "solitude was to her companionship," for Edith had "many thoughts the waters of this world could not assuage." She walked on and on, unconscious of how far she had progressed from the cottage. The tide had been making rapid advances, and, in order to avoid a return over the shingles, she ascended the sloping cliff. The sheep-bell was tinkling, and the flocks that had been luxuriating on the green herbage were being gathered to the fold.

Edith gained the top of the cliff, and she sat down to gaze on the tranquil beauty of the scene, which formed a contrast so striking to the grandeur of the last night's storm. She threw off her bonnet to enjoy the full luxury of the mild sea-breeze. She sat long, and, though her mind was lulled to delicious repose, it had wandered to remembrances of the past, and to anticipations of the future. She was roused to a sense of the present by a rustling in the brushwood, and there, extended on the grass, was the figure of a

man, and he was intently gazing on herself. She was up in a moment.

"Stay!" said the figure, rising abruptly; "stay! If you are not an illusion, tell me who you are!"

Edith turned to retreat; but she was so terrified that she almost sank to the earth. She ran on, till, panting for breath, she could run no further; and when she reached the first bench she stopped to recover herself. The figure advanced; nearer and nearer it came. Edith's heart beat violently; she saw the approach, but she had no power to move; she remained rooted to the spot. The figure stood before her, and spoke

"If you are not an illusion, you must have a name-tell me-tell me what that name is !"

There was the earnestness of reality in the voice, and it tended to dispel fear. Edith looked at the speaker; the moonlight was full upon him. A cold shudder passed over her; she was sure that somewhere she had seen that face before; the expression was indelibly impressed on her memory; it was older-it was sterner, but still it was the same. "And you," she said, gazing wildly into his face, “tell me who you are!"

"That voice! that voice!" he exclaimed, and staggering backwards, he fell senseless on the green turf.

"Almighty Powers!" exclaimed Edith; "it is he!-it is my-" and she knelt down beside him.

"Oh help! help!" she cried, looking wildly around. No help was near, no human being was in sight. Those two were together on the cliff, and the moonlight shone on them. "What, oh what is to be done!" cried Edith, clasping her hands in despair; and again she called loudly for help. This time the call was not unheeded; it reached the ears of a coast-guard, who, though yet on a distant part of the cliff, hastened onwards. Soon he was in sight,-in a few minutes he stood beside them. Edith did not speak, but she grasped his coat, looked beseechingly into his face,

and pointed to the poor sufferer. But the man, scarcely noticing him, directed his whole attention to Edith. He Не regarded her in amazement; the wild expression of her countenance, the eager earnestness of her attitude, was to him a far more unusual sight than that of the senseless figure extended on the cliff. At length he bent over him, and, taking his hand, said—

Why there's life in the body yet; mayhap if he could be got into one o' them there houses out there, he'd come round again."

"Where?-where?" said Edith, starting up with renewed energy. "He must be removed-no time is to be

lost!"

"Out by there yonder there's a farm-house; belike you'd stay wi' the gentleman till I get back again wi' help, and then we could manage to lift him. But-if I may be bold enough to say it-pray don't fluster yourself i' this gate. Bless your heart, miss, I've seen as many as four or five o' them lying i' this fashion just like stone-dead. Sometimes the life comes into 'em again, and sometimes it doesn't.

This belike is a poor fellow 'scaped fro' the wreck o' last night."

"Oh! go, go! in mercy let no time be lost!"

66 a fair chance is a fair

"Wait a bit," said the man; chance, and we may as well gi' it to him," and, stooping down, he unfastened his vest, and loosened the handkerchief round his neck; then, turning to go, he looked at Edith, whose overwrought excitement had found relief in tears, and who was now sobbing hysterically, and he muttered to himself" Poor soul! she's a heart as tender as a chicken!"

The farm-house was not far distant; its location was in a lane leading to the little village of Beltinge. There there was ready help; and when the guard returned, and while he assisted in the removal of the dying man, Edith, aroused to the necessity for immediate exertion, hastened homeward

along the cliffs to summon medical aid. It was with a strong effort that she regained composure to make known her object, and to give Dr. Arnold the requisite directions; but she did so; and then poor Edith slowly turned on her way to the cottage. What passed when she entered it will not be described.

And Helen? Helen, yet ignorant of the history of her mother's early life, now listened to fragments of the narrative with an intensity of interest. The three were together. There was a long silence. Mrs. Maitland, irresolute how to act, and as if in continuation of her thoughts, clasped her hands, and said

"No, no; I cannot-I cannot see him again!—and yet— and yet-"

The daughters clang around her; but they could not speak words of comfort-they could only weep.

There did they sit so cheerless and so desolate-till the light of morning shone on the little window. Edith opened it; the balmy air blew on them refreshingly. All without was so beautiful, so calm, so tranquil! Oh! how did the deep repose of nature contrast with the tumult in their minds! The early songs of the birds touched their hearts with sadness now, and they would have had more sympathy with the outer world had there been clouds, and raging wind and storm. But now the repose that pervaded all things, the serenity of that clear blue sky, seemed a mockery of their world within.

Meantime there lies this man of mystery, there on a bed in that lone farm-house he lies, and still insensible. Dr. Arnold is bending over him; he is administering remedies and watching the result. At length his eyes slowly open, and he looks round with a gaze of vacancy, then there is a rush of thought, and an expression of agony passes over his countenance the agony not of corporeal, but of mental suffering. A few minutes more, and he struggles for speech, but the words are almost inaudible