oars.

Grumbling was useless, and after two hours' steady work we got nearly opposite St. Margaret's Bay. Here a deceptive breeze induced us to get up mast and sails again, which done, the wind immediately fell away to nothing.

us

We had by this time rowed sixteen or seventeen miles since morning in a very heavy boat, and some of us thought we had had enough of it. We all without exception looked round hoping for something to turn up, when between and the land about a mile astern of us, we saw a tug-boat coming along "with a bone in her teeth," to be translated as referring to the white surf which she piled up against her bows as she rushed along. "Down mast and sails and row." This we did with all our might to get within hail of her, and then I stood up and waved my cap.

The master of the tug-boat most kindly sheered out to us, and without stopping his vessel took our boarding-hook and tow line aboard him, whilst I was steering so as to avoid the swirl of his propeller, deep under water though it was, and to get our boat end on for the first giant pull the steamer would give us.

Nothing I know of gives one such an idea of force as this first jerk. Then bows up in the air we rushed after the tug through a foaming cauldron of waters, which raced past and alongside of us, and now and then sent a cataract of spray-salt sea spraysometimes fine as dust and then rattling like hailstones on our oilskins. These we had at once got into.

I kept our boat as steadily as possible in the very wake of the steamer, which towed us six miles in about halfan-hour, by a series of these tremendous jerks which it seemed no tow-rope could long withstand.

She cast us off about two miles from Deal, being herself bound to the nor❜ard, and these two miles we finished off by rowing, so that we sailed about fifteen miles of our long voyage of forty miles, rowed about eighteen or nineteen, and towed behind a steamer the remaining six or seven.

A still more recent voyage (Nov. 21, 1895) to the North Sand Head Lightship, which we have already described, may enable my readers better to realise how easy it is to get into the dangerous grasp of the Goodwins.

Having sailed by the N.W. buoy of the Goodwins, as before, and round the broad northern head of the sands, we got alongside the lightship and presented our Christmas offerings-plum-pudding included, and after a short visit said farewell

once more

A slight haze had come on, and evening was falling in with an increasing breeze and tumble of a sea. We therefore forthwith set sail--still our small mainsail, for though a reef would have been better in some respects, we decided to press the boat landwards. We stood in till we made the

buoy on Sawney's Knoll, and then leaving it on the starboard hand we "hauled our wind," and concluded we bad again rounded the North Sand Head and that we were approaching the N.W. buoy. All four of us together called out "There's the mast of the Gull Lightship;" and persuaded it was so, I said "I can see the lantern;" and so we stood on. The sea got heavier came from different directions-did not break, but showed greenish and hollowed itself as if it would break.

The boat, struck by these cross seas on her quarter and stern, seemed as if she would "shoot," and run away with us. I felt we were not in deep water, and I looked aghast at the yellow colour.

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Up helm!" said one. "That's not the Gull Lightship!" said I, "it's the mast of a wreck with its top still remaining."

A great surf was now visible to right of us, and away half a mile to the left, while in front there lay what not of mysteries and forgotten wrecks.1

THE LAMP.

We had, it became obvious, missed our way, we four experienced boatmen, who had all of us been the same road scores of times, and suddenly found ourselves in rather a heavy sea right on the top of the Goodwins.

There is a curiously-shaped spit of sand on the North Sand Head of the Goodwins, shaped like a monstrous forefinger and smaller thumb, and the wind having come more to the E., as we luffed to it, we were sucked by the offtide into the grasp of this misshapen finger and thumb.

There we met the seas on the point of breaking; and shortly after that we got into the great N.E. swatch which emerges near the Fork spit; but as the sand was all covered, and as there was neither passage nor swatchway visible, only sea and sky and surf, we thought it best to ease off our mainsheet and run back before the wind instead of attempting in heavy sea, with evening coming on, the unknown in front.

The photograph on the next page, taken on the spot at this time, shows the surf discernible to the right and the left.

This we did, after some uncertainty as to the best course to adopt, and soon got into deep water again.

The experience was a lesson to us to take our compass in future, no matter how familiar we may be with the mighty Goodwins. I never before realised how easily the slightest mistake may lead a vessel to disaster.

The very day before we were thus sucked on to the Goodwins a vessel was wrecked there in a gale of wind from the E.S.E. She ran ashore on the E. part of the sands, no doubt swept on to the Goodwins by the set of the tide in towards them. Her crew abandoned her and took to their own boats and were getting drawn into a most dangerous surf when they were rescued in an exhausted state by the coxswain and crew of the Deal lifeboat. One of the crew of the Deal life-boat who had thus rescued the poor sailors, was one of our

number on this occasion, and yet with all our united experience of the baleful place and local knowledge, we got entangled in the Goodwins, and owing to the haze, mistook the mast and top hamper of a wreck-a Belgian vessel lost with all handsfor the Gull Lightship.

To get back again, to retrace one's steps, was not so easy, and the struggle back seemed slow to our anxiety, as the boat staggered and rolled before the wind towards the deeper water. We still skirted the edge of the Goodwin Sands, on which within a quarter of a mile of us a surf was visible tossing shoots and columns of spray up to the black sky, the results of breakers in lines running strangely together from opposite quarters, and clashing together in such furious shocks that foam spouts and surf jets all snowy white, were projected high into the air.

"That would have put us all down into the cellar," was all that was said as we gazed and gazed, while the good boat spread her wings for home.

"WHY

I.

HÜP, whüp! Whoa-oa-oa! Steady there, Bess! Steady, mare! Keep thy legs out well afore thee! Pick thy way, lass, pick thy way. I'll hold thee up, never fear! Whüp, whüp! Steady, mare!"

Down the steep hill, through the silence of the dark night; jolting here, jerking there, over the stony lane, brushing in the gloom against the overhanging boughs of great solemn trees; went Ben Mallock's horse and cart, with Ben in the crossseat, his legs planted stiff and straight before him as he pursed his lips together and gripped at the reins with all his might and main. The fierce mountain torrents, swollen by the sweeping rains, had cut miniature gullies and cañons in the rough road, and into these the wheels of the homely cart jolted and bumped ever and anon with a rattle and a whirr, causing Ben suddenly to lurch from one side to the other. Here and there the mare, as she stumbled and strained, lighted upon some of the loose stones that lay scattered about in every direction, and slid forward for several feet together, tugging the cart behind her with a sudden spurt, and coming up at last with a jerk against one of the rough gutters that crossed the way at intervals.

"Whoa, mare! Steady, mare! Supper's 'afore thee!" said Ben, as he held up her head.

Thus the swaying cart, with horse and driver, shook and rattled its way to the bottom of the

hill, and so to the level road that frowned and glimmered under the great beeches.

A star burned and throbbed in the northern sky. Into the very heart of the palpitating night loomed the great hills, black and still, on either side the valley, pressing the brooding darkness to their bosoms. A lambent far-away radiance played strangely, now glowing, now fading, athwart the frowning western height. It was the glare of a blast-furnace situate miles away across the low-country, on the other side of the hill. The thick woods that clustered in the shadow of the mountain-slopes rustled with a sigh and a murmur as the night-breeze swept up from the south-a sigh and a murmur that stole up softly towards the sky and then ceased suddenly, like the long-drawn breath of a person in trouble. What nooks and coppices and silent glades lay sleeping under the impenetrable cloak of darkness that covered the valley! Thick woods of oak and sycamore; winding paths lurking dimly through copses of hazel and red-berried mountain-ash; silent plantations and preserves where the mantraps lay in ominous wait among the fern, and where the trees grew so thick, that the brightest summer day threw but a gloomy half-light beneath their branches. "Rattle, rattle and whirr," went the lumbering cart along the dark road. Ben sat forward easily now, giving the mare her head. The notes of a night-jar came from some distant glade up the valley. An owl hooted dismally in the larch-wood. In the very heart of the dark

ness, far up the hillside, a lonely light gleamed and twinkled.

"There be Jim Biddle's cottage," said Ben. "Jim's candle-light ha' shone from among them there trees these fifteen year, rain an' shine. Well, well, how the time keeps a-going! It don' seem so many months since Jim come here. I minds it well, 'cos it was the same year as I put up the new chimbley in the kitchen. Fifteen year come next barley-mowin', that's the exac' time. Come up, mare, come up! You be gettin' as lazy, a'most, as old Trot! That there dog is about the cutest animal I ever know. I s'pose all things gets cuter as they grows older. Now there's that Trot. It'd take a woman to be up to all his tricks and dodges. A man couldn' do it. You sends him off after the sheep, an' he rushes away barkin' fit to shake the mountain, an' as soon as he gets out o' your sight he sneaks through the hedge an' lies down an' goes off to sleep. He's a reg'lar old sinner, an' thee be a'most as bad, Bess! But never mind, old gel! Thee, an' me, an' the dog, we be good friends, we be. We've lived together many a long year, an' we've never had a fall-out yet. Together we've bin, an' together we'll stay as long as it's God's will."

Ben, like most people who lead solitary lives, had fallen into the habit of soliloquising aloud. When his day's work was done, and he was jogging along homewards in his shaky old cart, he would indulge in long, low-toned monologues, now with quaint fancy addressing his words to Bess, now to the dog, and now to himself. The sleepy old mare would prick up her ears at intervals as she caught the sound of Ben's voice, and would break into an insane little trot for several yards. Then she would as suddenly pull up, as though to ask herself what all this hurry was for, and drop into a drowsy walk again.

And now Ben began to peer into the darkness on the right-hand side of the road.

"Here be the lime-kiln," said he, "and here be the old barn, and here be the chestnut-tree. Whoa, mare!"

Bess stopped, and slowly turned to the right, and then paused again. Bess knew just as well as her master that they had arrived at the entrance of the narrow lane which led up towards their little homestead. She knew that Ben would jump down here to take her head and pilot her up the rough way. And thus she always came to a standstill by the chestnut-tree.

So up the rough lane, through a darkness that could almost be felt, until they came to the small gateway which led to Ben's farm-house. The little thatched-roof building consisted of only one story. On either side the door was a small window, and at the pine-end, under the creaking rain pipe, stood a huge water butt, almost as high as the house itself. All around ran a fringe of poplar-trees, under whose shadow, at the rear of the house, stood the paddock and stable.

Ben-having unharnessed the horse, having run the cart into its accustomed corner, having given Bess her feed of oats, as was his wont on Saturday evening, having rubbed her down carefully, and patted her "Good-night," and padlocked the door,

all by the light of a guttering candle-went round to the front of the house, and fumbled in the lock with a big key, to the tune of furious barking round the corner.

"Ay, ay, bark away, old rascal!" said he. "Thy bark is the biggest part o' thee. I'll wager, now, that thee 'st been sleeping thy head off up to this very minute. An' now thee wants to make me believe as thee'st the savagest house-dog in the valley. Get along with thee! I knows

thee!"

The dog had fallen to bounding and yelping with delight, and Ben, before he opened the door, went round and set him free.

"Come along in, then," said he. "Thee and me's good company. Thee shall lie by the fire and sleep to thy heart's content. Down, down, thee old rascal! Thee can't persuade me as thee 'st not bin sleeping!"

To light the fire in the huge, thick-barred grate, to cook in the frying-pan the meal of bacon and potatoes, and to sit before the simple fare at the small deal table, was but the work of a few minutes. Ben had lived alone ever since his mother had died, fourteen years ago, and had grown dexterous in the performance of household duties. The fire leapt and danced as he ate, casting strange gleams and flashes upon the plates on the dresser, upon the quaint old warmingpan which hung from the rafters, upon the face of the old eight-day clock that ticked slowly in the corner, and upon the small looking-glass before which Ben every day brushed his gray hair. At his side sat the dog, waiting patiently for his own share; but Ben did not pay so much attention to him as usual. He was pre-occupied to-night. Mechanically, and with an absent look on his face, he set the dog his portion, brewed himself some tea, "cleared the things away," and sat in the old oaken chair by the fireside, slowly filling his pipe and sipping from the cup at his elbow. The wind now and again murmured outside amongst the poplars. The dog stretched himself upon the hearth at Ben's feet, and blinked at him with lazy affection. But Ben heeded not. As he smoked his long pipe, and looked into the glowing flames, he was far away in a time eighteen years agone. Vague memories, surely, must be those of eighteen years; dim, and shadowy, and dulled of pain or pleasure by the touch of time. Not to Ben. There are some hearts as steady and closelocked as the heart of the old oak-tree. It is the old things, the old loves, the old friends, the old sorrows that live in them. Ben's heart had fed itself for eighteen years on a memory.

"Strange as I should think on it so much. Trot! I thought on it last night, and night before, and night before that. Mos'ly I try not to think on it more 'n once a week-and that on Sunday night. It was on a Sunday night when I see'd her last, Trot. Eighteen years come a fortnight next Sunday. Bless me, but the time do slip by! I was only twenty-six then; and here

I be at forty-four, a 'most in the turn of a grindstone like. How well I remembers that there Sunday night! Well, well, what's the use of goin' over that again! There's no doubt as she

gived me the go-by, and that's an end of it. But I don' bear her no ill-will for that. Very likely when she got to Lunnon she had a chance of marryin' men as could do much better for her in life than I could ever do. But I felt for a few years, Trot, as if there was no good in goin' on alivin' in that weary, lonesome way-jes' workin', an' eatin' and sleepin', and then a-doin' it all over again -but I've got over that a bit now. All the same, somehow I could never take to any other woman, an' so here I be. It might ha' bin very different if she-but there's no good in vexin' about that. I sometimes thinks as we be wicked, darin' creatures, a fumin' an' frettin' and fightin' agen the will of the Almighty as we do. I wonder where she is an' what she's a-doin! I wonder is she married, an' 'as she got a good husband? I hope she have. I should be sorry to think as she'd got a bad man—a neat, smart, happy-minded gel like she was. Well, well, it's no good a-sittin' here all night. I mus' go out an' cut the chaff, an' then come in to wash up the things. Come along,

Trot, and give a look round-come on, you lazy rascal, an' keep old Ben company. You an' Bess is the faithfullest friends I've ever found, and we understands each other all round, don't we, Trot? Come along; it's no use for us two to be dozin' an' dreamin' like this."

Solemn Night drew her mantle of darkness yet closer around the world, and hovered, silent and still, between the stars and the sleeping hills. Tremulous quivers, as of subtle glimmerings of light, ran up the valley like memories of a departed day, as, throughout the long hours, the glow in the western sky reddened and paled and reddened again with the regular fiery breathing of the far-away blast-furnace. The death-like calm of the countryside was broken only by the clear flow of the stream and the soughing of the wind in the woods. A peaceful sleep was Mother Nature's on this still night in September; but not more peaceful than that of Ben in his great fourposter in the small bed-room of his cottage, as the little window blinked at him darkly from the foot of the bed, and the old clock ticked steadily away in the kitchen.

THE

II.

HE way to the old mountain chapel lies through the barley-field of Ben's little farm. Thence it winds by the wall of the plantation, and so through the larch-wood, until it reaches the open summit of the hill. Now it buries itself deep among glades of hawthorn. Farther on it comes out by the verge of the wood, and affords to the eye peeps of the winding tree-clad valley stretching away far to the south. The sweet fresh mountain breeze makes music the whole of the way. Rabbits dart hither and thither amongst the fern. Pheasants rise from amongst the gorse. Everywhere, as the simple mountaineers walk peacefully to service, is the song and freshness of the new morning.

Ben had been up early, and, after lighting the fire and setting the kettle to boil, had gone out to see to the wants of the little farmstead. The

mare stamped and neighed and rung her chain in the stall as she heard his footsteps.

"Oh, thee's glad to see me this mornin', is thee?" he said, as he threw open the stable door. "Thee knows it's Sunday mornin' as well as any one, thee does! Thee knows as it's extra allowance an' no work for thee! Come on, then; thee shall have a good breakfast for thy welcome."

And as the mare rubbed her nose against his shoulder he filled the manger with sweet hay from the rough hurdle-basket above. Then he went over to the fowls and ducks who clustered and flapped furiously around him as he threw to them their Indian corn. He talked to them, also, in his quaint affectionate style.

66

Oh, yes, thee's very fond of me, thee is, when I brings along thy breakfast. That's what we calls cupboard love, that is!"

The kettle was singing merrily as, with Trot at his heels, Ben entered the kitchen to prepare his own breakfast. How well they understood each other, these two! Trot sat patiently on the hearth, with expectant ears, as he saw the white table-cloth laid, and heard the musical rattle of the tea-things. He knew that his own liberalshare was soon to be placed on the hearth as it had been placed every Sunday morning, year in year out. Surely there was never such a methodical man as Ben Mallock! Everything in its place and a place for everything. Everything in the same order, even to the putting of the milk and sugar in the cup and the cutting of the bread and butter, while the teapot stood on the hob "to draw.”

It was a warm morning, and the sun sent down a blaze of light upon the kitchen window as Ben sat at his breafast. The robins sang lustily in the trees, and sparrows flitted about the eaves.

66

'Now then, Trot," said Ben, after he had washed the tea-things. "Let's have our usual sit-down on the wall! An' then I'll go to chapel, an' thee'll make believe to look after the house, an' go to sleep direc'ly my back is turned. Oh, 1 knows thee! Come along."

And putting n his soft felt hat with the wide brim, he opened the door and sat on the low wall that ran in front of the house. The tall poplartrees skirted it at regular intervals of six or seven feet. Ben rested his back against one of them and fell to musing. Trot sprang up at his side and lay lazily in the sunshine, looking at his master with half-open eyes. Thus they sat for half-an-hour in complete silence.

There is surely no Sunday morning in the whole world more sweet and calm and pure than a Sunday morning in this still valley. Waving trees on all sides; here and there white cottages peering out from amongst the foliage as birds from nests; far to the south a great expanse of hill and dale gleaming in the light of the sun : this was the scene that met Ben's eyes as he mused. Oh, the sweet peace of it! Oh, the deep sacred calm! What musical rustles passed upward through the woods at the back of the farm! How dreamily the poplars hummed and swayed overhead, as the wind passed on! Across the valley from the opposite hill, mellowed by the distance, came the piping of a thrush.