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JESSIE OGLETHORPE.

THE STORY OF A DAUGHTER'S DEVOTION.

BY W. H. DAVENPORT ADAMS.

CHAPTER VIII.

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T was Christmas day, a day which throughout Merry England is kept in grateful remembrance of the Saviour's birth-on lone Yorkshire wolds, in the wild dales of Cumberland, among the fertile fields and pastures of Kent, in the deep 'ferny combes' of smiling Devon. It was Christmas day, and everybody in Branscombe knew it. The church bells had rung out the welcome-chime, saying, as plainly as bells could say, 'Good-will on earth, peace among men ;' the villagers had gone up in orderly manner and with decent seeming to listen to the words of glad tidings under the sacred roof; there were brave doings at the Manor House, as there had been for more Christmas-tides than the oldest inhabitant could tell of; and not a cottage in Branscombe but exhibited some sign or other of the joyful season. Christmas day, and everybody in Branscombe knew it. If they had not-if they had needed to be reminded of that day, above all days, when man throws off for a while his burden of care and money-getting, and stretches the hand of friendship to his fellow-man, they could not have passed Job Oglethorpe's cottage without a quickening of their memory. For the window was embowered in bright green holly and laurel, which trailed up either side in pleasant luxuriance, and hung suspended from the top in gay festoons of glossy leaf and scarlet berry. The door too was similarly decorated, bearing witness to every

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passer-by that it was Christmas-time, and bidding all rejoice in remembrance of the Divine Babe of Bethlehem. Yes; it was the merriest Christmas possible in Job Oglethorpe's cottage. The walls were hung with evergreens, according to the good old fashion; evergreens were wreathed about the time-honoured rafters, from which depended a flitch or two of good fat bacon, and certain other household treasures; evergreens flourished like a trophy over the huge fireplace, where crackled and spluttered a Yule-log of portentous dimensions; evergeens decked each shining domestic utensil, and the coloured prints that in neat black frames were hung against the wall. Over the fire was placed a large iron crock, which might have served, I think, for Guy of Warwick's famous caldron, but on this occasion was the receptacle of a Christmas pudding, apparently of sufficient dimensions for the consumption of all Branscombe.

In truth it was Christmas-tide; and throughout the length and breadth of England, men, putting aside their cares and animosities, their jealousies and petty gods, were willing to exclaim, with the quaint old poet

'So now is come our joyful'st feast:

Let every man be jolly;

Each room with ivy leaves is drest,

And every post with holly.

Though some churls at our mirth repine,
Round your foreheads garlands twine;
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,

And let us all be merry.'

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There were no cups of wine' in Job Oglethorpe's cottage, but there was a moderate tankard of good wholesome cider; and with or without cider or wine, its inmates were all content to be 'merry.' They would not be sorrowful on that day, if they could help it. It is one of the blessings of pain that it intensifies our happiness, and renders our after pleasure the more enjoyable; just as it needs the dark cloud and the heavy rain to reveal the glorious splendours of the luminous rainbow

arch. If we never suffered, we should lose the most precious moments of life; if we never sorrowed, our enjoyment would be the emptiest thing imaginable; without occasional tears, our laughter would be of no more account than the 'tinkling cymbal.'

It was a pleasant sight to see the Oglethorpes gathered around their Christmas fire. Friends, neighbours, and strangers there had been many, who would fain have shared their holiday with them, and again and again. talked over the events in which Jessie Oglethorpe, on that memorable November night, had been the principal actor. From the Manor House and from the Vicarage had come the most pressing invitations for Jessie and her father to grace the festivities, and lend them the interest and novelty of their presence. Too much of this had simple-hearted Jessie experienced already; and with resolute minds, she and her father had determined that, in the good old English fashion, they would spend their Christmas day at home and alone.

It was so, they thought, that they should best find opportunities for devout thankfulness to the God who had rescued them from the perils of that dread night on the Witch's Rock.

And there they sat around their Christmas fire,—` three of the happiest beings in all England! Job Oglethorpe lay back in a large arm-chair, very weak and very pallid; for his illness had been severe, and he had but slowly recovered from the effects of the blow so treacherously dealt him by Dark Dick Marsland. That he had been the assailant was certain; Job had recognised him on his way to the lighthouse, and had bidden him return home with words of good and kindly counsel. Job's recovery had been slow, I say, but it had been cheered by his daughter's devotedness and by the sympathy of his countrymen. The story had spread far and wide; had even reached the great distant metropolis; had come to the ears of those in authority; and had brought down words of praise and substantial reward,

both for him and his heroic daughter. He had no occasion to go as yet to the lighthouse; a deputy had been appointed to do his work until he was completely recovered; but he received his full wages, while his daughter was made assistant-keeper, and presented with a gratuity which, moderate as it was, seemed to her a fortune.

With quiet, happy countenance she now sat by her father's side, her eyes beaming with love as they rested on his silver hair, on his wan but cheerful face; and at her feet, on a low stool, knelt her sister Peggy, poring with studious intentness over a printed sheet of Christmas carols.

But, after all, they were not meant to spend their Christmas day alone; for while they sat, and talked, and thought, and hoped, a knock came to their cottage door. The latch was lifted, and, without a word of apology, straight into the cheerful apartment strode a burly individual, whom the most inexperienced eye, at the briefest glance, would have pronounced 'a regular old salt.' Jessie had risen to check the intruder's advance, supposing it was some inquisitive visitor come to gaze upon the Branscombe heroine; but the stranger removing his hat, she immediately recognised him, and springing forward to embrace him, exclaimed

'What! Uncle Roger! A merry merry Christmas, dearest uncle!'

'You, brother!' cried Job Oglethorpe; 'and on Christmas day! Was ever anything more fortunate ? Sit down, sit down!-off with your cloak and muffler, and let us all be happy. Right glad am I, my brother, to see you once again!'

A seat was soon placed in the warmest corner; a mug of fresh cider pressed into Uncle Roger's not unwilling hands; and for an hour or more that happy family circle maintained a never-pausing game of questions' and

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There was so much to be told, so much to be heard.

Uncle Roger had to describe his voyage to Boston, his experience of New England, and his voyage homeward; while Jessie and her father, as we know, had adventures of their own to relate, not inferior in interest to those of the burly sailor.

And then it came out, when they compared notes, that the ship which Dick Marsland had hoped to beguile ashore on the stormy November night, with whose events our readers are acquainted, was no other than Roger Oglethorpe's.

I had lost my reckoning,' said Uncle Roger, 'and neither I nor my mate could tell whereabouts the gale had driven us, and we were steering, as we afterwards discovered, right in-shore, when suddenly one of the men exclaimed, "There's Branscombe lights on the weatherbow!" And sure enough they were there, shining out merrily like a star, though in vain had we looked out before for any beacon or landmark to guide us. "All hands about ship!" I sang out immediately; for then, you see, I knew where we were driving, and that in a few minutes, if we kept on our course, we should lay our bones on Branscombe rocks. As it was, we only just got clear; but the ship was a good ship, the crew a good crew, and up aloft there was mercy for us, though, mayhap, we little deserved it. We beat about for some days until the weather cleared, and then made for Plymouth, where we landed our cargo; but business with the owners took me to London, and that, you see, was the reason I could not get down to Branscombe before Christmas day. It's a long journey from London, brother.'

'So I have heard, Roger,' said Job Oglethorpe; 'but I have never been there.'

'You should go there now,' said the seaman, laughing; 'they would make much of you and Jessie, I can tell you. Why, bless you, Job, they have got it all in print!'

'The parson told us it was so,' remarked Jessie; 'and the squire came from the Manor House to talk about it;

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