CHAPTER I.

RANSCOMBE is, I think, one of the most romantic villages on the north coast of Devon.

It is situated at the head of a narrow combe, or valley, that, widening as it descends, opens upon the sea-shore, and whose steep rocky sides are clothed with fine old trees and an abundance of ferns and blossoms, giving place, near the sea, to dark green furze, which, at the proper season, becomes all a-glow with golden glory. A crystal stream falls through the glen in a succession of miniature leaps and tiny cascades, which fill the air with light and music. Near the village it turns the large wheel of a grey old mill, which since the days of Elizabeth, and maybe from long before, has belonged to the same family of millers. A narrow path follows the stream down to the pebbly beach, where it ripples over polished stones which shine like jewels, to mingle its waters with those of ocean. A strip of smooth, fresh turf lines the bank, and blooms with a verdure that in summer is never parched, and in winter never blighted.

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The combe, or valley, of which I speak, may be compared to a gash cut in a solid wall of rock; for the coast of this part of Devon consists of a huge line of precipitous cliff, on whose crags and ledges the sea-birds lay their eggs. It is hollowed out into many dark, noisome caverns, whose walls are hung with brown and purple sea-weed, and covered with dripping mosses. At low water these may be entered by the curious stranger; but when the tide is in, the billows swirl tumultuously in their recesses with a dull, booming sound, like distant thunder. Masses of rock have been loosened from the high, steep, wind-swept wall by the action of the waves and the weather combined; and these are scattered about the shore, some far out at sea, all washed by the billows when the wind blows from the west or north, and rendering the coast very terrible and dangerous to the storm-tossed mariner. On one of these, which is of a great size, a lighthouse was formerly erected, to warn him from approaching a place which had no friendly welcome or hospitable shelter. Its gleaming lamps had undoubtedly saved many a precious life; and yet there was never a winter at Branscombe but some good ship was driven by the gales straight on to this perilous shore, and wrecked among the rocks.

Branscombe village is a quiet, dreamy place, with an old inn, an old mill, an old church, and an old manorhouse. I suppose it looks now very much as it did one hundred and seventy years ago, when the events took place of which I am about to tell the reader; for those little fishing villages, hidden among the leafy combes, within sight and hearing of the mighty sea, are very slow to change, and preserve from generation to generation the same air of dulness and sleepy calm. The grey tower of the ancient church is all unaltered; the honeysuckle and the wild rose still climb up the whitewashed cottage wall, and spread over the low thatched roof; the children still play in the village street, or fish, with hooks made out of pins, in the mill's babbling stream; the fishermen

still stretch their nets to dry upon the rocks, and haul up their boats to the mouth of the combe, out of the reach of angry waves; there are a few graves more in the churchyard, and the memorial stones which were fresh and new a century ago, are now scarce readable for their coating of lichens and moss; but otherwise, Branscombe village in the days of Victoria wears much the same appearance as it did in the days of George II.

Great changes, it is true, have taken place; but these have been in the character of the villagers. In the days I speak of they were an ignorant, superstitious, and turbulent race. They were fishermen; but they were also smugglers and wreckers, living upon dishonest gains, openly violating the laws not only of man but of God. They hailed the wreck of a goodly vessel as you might hail some very fortunate event. Instead of launching a boat to rescue, if possible, any endangered life, I fear they rejoiced if none were saved to interfere with their brutal cupidity. As vultures gather about a dead body, did these human birds of prey flock round the shattered fragments which the stormy waters cast ashore.

Of course there were some among the villagers who regarded such conduct with disgust, and sternly held themselves aloof from actions that were so devoid of honour and humanity. Among these was the aged lighthouse-keeper, Job Oglethorpe, a man of some two-andsixty years, who had spent a long life in the lighthouse service, and was loved and respected by all who knew him. Yes, even the daring smuggler and fierce wrecker respected him; for the wicked can admire the good they do not practise. He was a man of considerable shrewdness; and when there was any trouble in the village, his advice was invariably sought and generally followed. His heart was full of kindly feelings; and he would have shared his last crust with any person that stood in want of it. He was a widower; his wife had been dead six years, leaving him with two daughters to rear and educate, one of whom, at the time my story opens, was in her

fourteenth, and the other in her ninth year. Jessie, the elder, was a tall, handsome girl, very like her father, and grave and steady beyond her age, owing perhaps to the important place she had filled in the little household since her mother's death. Good cause had Job Oglethorpe to be fond and proud of his daughter, for she had already learned to choose 'the better part,' and to look to God's written word for a guide to her feet and a lamp to her path. Her affections were strong, her feelings deep and tender, and the quiet goodness of her nature made itself visible in her kindly eyes and gentle smile :

A face with gladness overspread,

Sweet looks, by human kindness bred!'

Of her sister Margaret I need say nothing. She was a lively, thoughtless, loving lass, full of fun and frolic, the very joy and sunshine of the lighthouse-keeper's home.

Into that home let us now take a peep. Job Ogle thorpe's cottage was situated at the extreme end of the village, towards the sea, and at about a mile's distance from the lighthouse. In those days the lighthouse system was not as perfect as it is now, and the keeper who tended the lights was not required, as he now is, to live on the scene of his duties. Now, too, let me add, there are always two, and sometimes three keepers to share those important duties, on the proper performance of which so many precious lives are often dependent. In Job Oglethorpe's time all the labour and all the responsibility fell to the lot of one man.

The cottage was placed in the centre of a neat garden, which was the envy of all Branscombe. In summer it bloomed with the most fragrant and splendid flowers, such as roses, and pinks, and stocks, sweet marjoram, cloves, and sweet-william. Tall hollyhocks reared their gaudy crests against the wall, and delicious woodbine and fairylike clematis, winding about the rustic porch, converted it into a complete arbour. When you opened the parlour-window a blushing rose popped in its head,