JESSIE OGLETHORPE.

THE STORY OF A DAUGHTER'S DEVOTION.

BY W. H. DAVENPORT ADAMS.

CHAPTER II.

ESTWARD of the village, and along the line of the cliffs, extended a broad sweep of waste land, partly overgrown with furze, but in many places spotted with purple heather, and in others clothed in a garb of soft sweet moss and grasses. Branscombe Moor, as the villagers called it, was a pleasant enough spot in summer; for then the sunshine lit up furze, and broom, and heather with a golden radiance; and the wayfarer, as he blithely pressed its fragrant carpet, looked out afar on the gleaming, glowing sea with a feeling of infinite delight. It was, in sooth, a lonesome, silent spot; for the village, lying deep down in the valley beyond, was scarcely discernible; and inland the prospect terminated with a range of undulating heights, whose lower slopes were finely wooded, though their summits stood out against the sky in completest barrenness. It was skirted on the east by the dusty highway which connected Branscombe with the nearest market-town, and traversed here and there by footpaths and cart-tracks, which led by various routes down into the village glen, or to certain points on the cliff, where it was possible to effect a difficult descent to the surgebeaten shore. Looking across the combe to the northeast, the traveller caught sight of the Witch's Rock, crowned with its massive, but by no means handsome, lighthouse tower, and could see the long, rolling surge,

JESSIE OGLETHORPE.

THE STORY OF A DAUGHTER'S DEVOTION.

BY W. H. DAVENPORT ADAMS.

CHAPTER II.

ESTWARD of the village, and along the line of the cliffs, extended a broad sweep of waste land, partly overgrown with furze, but in many places spotted with purple heather, and in others clothed in a garb of soft sweet moss and grasses.

Branscombe Moor, as the villagers called it, was a pleasant enough spot in summer; for then the sunshine lit up furze, and broom, and heather with a golden radiance; and the wayfarer, as he blithely pressed its fragrant carpet, looked out afar on the gleaming, glowing sea with a feeling of infinite delight. It was, in sooth, a lonesome, silent spot; for the village, lying deep down in the valley beyond, was scarcely discernible; and inland the prospect terminated with a range of undulating heights, whose lower slopes were finely wooded, though their summits stood out against the sky in completest barrenness. It was skirted on the east by the dusty highway which connected Branscombe with the nearest market-town, and traversed here and there by footpaths and cart-tracks, which led by various routes down into the village glen, or to certain points on the cliff, where it was possible to effect a difficult descent to the surgebeaten shore. Looking across the combe to the northeast, the traveller caught sight of the Witch's Rock, crowned with its massive, but by no means handsome, lighthouse tower, and could see the long, rolling surge,

with its crest of glittering foam, break impetuously on the craggy causeway that connected it with the beach. Here and there the common was relieved in its monotony by a shepherd's hut, or at least by a rude, quaint erection of furze and branches, supported by a few posts, and surrounded by a low wall of stone, where a weary herdsman would sometimes rest himself while his flocks nibbled the grass in peace.

Branscombe Moor might fairly enough have been termed the common pasture-ground of the Branscombe villagers. Whatever rights its owner might enjoy over it were, by a time-honoured prescription, virtually annulled; and every man who was able to buy a cow, turned her out to grow fat upon its wholesome growth. The farmers used it for their sheep; the village tradesmen for their much-enduring horses; and geese, and poultry, and even pigs, availed themselves of its freedom at all seasonable opportunities. And in the summer it was scarcely less prized by the village children, who were glad enough to disport themselves in a locality which was beyond the jurisdiction of the schoolmaster, and out of the range of the sharpest motherly eyes.

But on the November afternoon that Jessie Oglethorpe drove home her father's cow-a fine, sleek, but somewhat mischievous animal, whose temper had been spoiled, I fear, by over-indulgence, no boys were playing on the moor, no geese were straying in search of quiet little pools, no hens were chuckling over suddenly-discovered treasures the scene was dreary in its extreme solitude and silence. Never had Rosebud proved more troublesome than on this particular afternoon. She knew the way to Job Oglethorpe's cottage and her own shed as well as Jessie herself; but now, possessed by an errant humour, she strayed from side to side with a most provoking disregard of her mistress's wishes.

The day had been dull and heavy, and as evening drew rapidly on, many signs of an approaching gale became visible to experienced eyes. The sea-birds were