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and give her some ro!
7 Martha Grant looked from one to the other of
THE PEOPLE’S HOME JOURNAL.
5
advancing from the ow bart at fe snd of the
street—a short, brown, grizzlei
I sprang to my feet pind ra rapped Sila on the
indow. He looked up, stared at me for a mo-
ment, the ne: I remember I wi
standing outside the door, i r4
with both hands and gazing speechlessly up in-
to his astonished old face.
“Mi ith!” he crie
kin: me. by the
hat Twa no 2
at Goeport? Why, you oot like ‘chostl
Gracious Tt Heaven !my dear, whatever “has hap-
ene
It was oay voice, and yet it did not seem mine,
which answered:
“Don’t as! I come to Gosport to
find you. Ih it home, wealth, everything
—I have not a friend left i whole world.
Take me ger Rock or I shall die!”
He snatched me up, this grizzled old light-
per, carried back to the im parlor, nd
brought me a glass water, smooi ing
my hair with his two great rough han
*«Lord love a sie etty dnt tink 2
this when Te ight this morning. ['ll tal
‘ve come to
it. How lot have {sou been at this inn ?”
“Since Tas Di;
The wonder in its face grew Ggeper.
“But your husband, my:
I t my breat th. ine “Tow, dark room
seemed dancing ardun
rm Martha, with a toss 01
standing at an open window near by, heard him
“ She’ 8a handsome creature, that Mrs. Brandt!
Where’s her husband?’
“That's no ‘Dusiuess
ot youre Ie arered
f th
is our guest, Ben. It’s no eo stg aizestions
about her—I shan't answer them IL obligs
me by talking of something
The brown lover slipped a eirant arm around
“alll the pleasure in life! Ain't you
most tired of life on the ro: ck, Martha ?
ne il from _Gosport—especially
when the weather’s bad. Ifyou keep me danc-
and forth much longer, I’m sure to
some
Then seek 2 ‘sweetheart nearer home!”
seofied Martha.
far. I wish to the Lord you’d marry me,
al”
Her mole | trembled erce] ily. “Not yet,
Dad @ ere hee dith n¢
Ben. eds
me. Some Teed the will be a fa g-signal on
the island, | and dads ‘rll have an assistant,
and the
T turned fi
from the window, and crept awa away to
my own room at the other end of the hous
assed. Never a word fro om the
reached | me. The. wild storms of
cutting 0!
we all Gommcnteation with the
mainla:
It was on one of these autumn nights, tull of
o ha ne cast me off, Uncle Davy;? I gasped; | mad gales and tumbling seas, that, in descending
“ityou e for me in the Joast, if'you, pity mé| the tower stairs, I sli ped and fell. I kuew
in the ‘Te ast, never speak of him to me.” more till my boy was
He stood ‘silently As I came driftin: slow! back from death, I
“ ru start for Danger Rook in an hour, my
dear. ‘I’m here arter supplies, as usual. You
can wait for me, and when I’m ready I'll call for
_you. The sea’s Foughening alittle, 80 the sooner
“we're off the bette:
ie went away without further words. At the
end o of an hour he returned, d, paid ny bill, tue fucked
own
ments after we were dancing | a
off across the colds gray, terrible sea to Danger
Rock Light—twenty miles awa
er Rock! Od the faco of the whole earth
spot was ever seon. At low tide it
On its broken,
0
Grant and his daughter ‘were’ tho. only living
uings upon its savago and forbiddin vaore
ht-house tower und the dwo
With it, both Duilt of granite, stood be-
ult Janding-placo, looking out
83
a
&
°
8
7, a8 had
“the lan
ed me | oul
rn
ra Ango you look 1”
“That'll do, Marthy, interposed the old light-
keeper, releasing m efrom his daughter’s em-
brace ; “ you're as rough as a nor’easter, girl
I found Miss Edith at Gow ports She's come to
stay with us at the rock. 't ask an: ny
juestions—she’s in troublo—that’s ant you an
wan’ ow. We've had a rough sail, and
she’s about fred out; take her into the house
with hor bri; right, keen eyes, that had some-
thing of ae sailor 8 hawk like vision, then put her | these
ew meup the steep
been
“ You safe with us, Miss Edith,” she said.
“Gilbort ‘Marlowe will never find you here. It’s
can only bear
© Government inspector. If or
storms, we'll take
the lonesomeness and ithe
cure of everything else.”
t night I went to sleep i in a chamber of the
gran: ite house, m 1e mourning Bea,
one Tay of light om the lamp in the tall stone
tow vahining’ across my be t “slept BT
in ni a ts jaw my husband’s face, stern, ac-
sin, z, "awful |, #8 I had seen it in my boi udoir on
the ni bt Dotone my flight.
“Gi bert! have mer exer upon me!” T
cried, and awoke to find myself sitting up in bed, | fi
8 extended
0 Gilbe rt was ‘hore, T had looked m
n him forever. By and by h would think me
dead, perhaps, and ma: path ning. Th
the 8 like a si
stab. y in ein
midnight o of oF that ttle » room mthe teat burst popes
‘or’
Lloved him! Mercifal God? He h:
spised me; ho had called m 6 the cars he is
life ; never on this Garth should I see his face
again, in, and I loved h
‘This was rs oat Danger Rock began.
The lghthoopen, is daughter and A wore the
only living beings on the island. I walked about
its rough areas I ant in of the
‘cnite house and watched tho passing sails;
bed the tairs with Da’ t6
ou
and then the ‘Fecper went to Gosport f for
sup, pliesthat was all that was furnishod. him
by Government—and Martha. and I were left
alone on the rock.
had but one aisitor Bon Halliday, a
brown young fisherman who came often to the
island iy play tho ‘Leander to its brave, bright
Horo. To him I was known as Mrs. Brandt, for
Thad resumod my maiden name.
Halliday wos very shy of me, and my presence
in the anite (, howse exemed, to puzzle him ex-
ceedin: onlit right, as he sat woo-
8!
ing Ma ha Gr Grant. ‘at the foot of the tower, I,
gesting this news; then he
ior
Martha Grant—lay in nd at
e)
buts but Ben Halliday and | qu
rant’s tear-wet face
pillow.
“Oh, must I ive ” T ‘groane
“Yes, she answered;
“Tam so sorry! For months my only hope,
my only prayer, has been to die when this time
chowld come.
“Don’t talk like that, Miss Edith, don’t! Look
our boy tent the 2 1Eigrions piece of flesh
blood ?” im in my arm
dimpled and fue Syatred ah plue-flax-flower
eyes in which I shuddered to look, so like they
were Ibert ‘arlowe’s.
i s—how reluctantly, how protest-
again! They were yoy kind
t barre ‘en roc]
zegsons comers almost ‘nunoticed,
and ew
was m:
Boned his purpos
With an unusually grave face | he came stall
into the room where I sat with Martha
Grant, busy with a a piece of needlework,
“You'll not see Gosport to- day—eh, dad?”
id Marthe.
“No,” he answered, picking up my rosy,
tumbling boy from the’ door, and pressing his
curly, wer-like head into his Preast; not
to-morrow, either. I’ve been on
this Tok fon ears, and Tre seen storms in my
, but nothing equal to what’s a-coming on
now.”
Atlantic const. ‘The light-keoper
San 0 the mainland for
ns, but as sine fom increased he aban-
waters into crests mountain igh}
8 mi ‘iving upon the island with.
noise of artillory ; their white spray broke high
ove
“The hous strong,” said the keeper,
cheerful ‘, “and the tower is stronger. I sus-
ect Ww 6 in. a state of siege for days to come,
Brut i if our proviions h hold out we needn’t foar.”
© BEA TOKE and higher, and at no
Goatees ‘breach over ths rock. ‘Every
movable i thing Shereon was was! y. The
house w: and the fo keeper was obliged
30 secure 8 to prevent the spray
‘om, crashing th
Come,” he nid, x last, “we cannot drown
here, my gir girla—we ‘must take to the tower.”
qos fe tower woe went.
“remarked Martha Grant,
we w
stands,”
ict ’ ft, we are safe.”
There was no sleep fo yay of us that night.
The old Keeper to acon, and Martha
and I watch per toned by my baby’s bed, with
the wind and sea shrieking al around us in the
foundations of the island
svamied t we trombl
ened at last, but the storm was
still jineressing stoxdily
im a
but baby must be put on allowance,
treated the matter lightly enough.
last we ti
Better that food should be scant than oil
16 | oil by which the lam}
was kept eee burn:
ing. Captive in the tower, we said to.
other, “ ‘o-morrow, surely, ‘the storm will
gin to subside |”
YY passed, and atill the sea
awept ae ln, ‘th it was Impossible toleave
yur tall 3é that rock in mid-se
So id the | teak oa any earthly help, we Boga
at last to realize that we were actually
danger of starvation,
On the ent the Botte. twelfth day of our im-
Priconment thi isterous sea grew quict, the
wind died aw:
«David Grant | put on zis roadnaught and tied
his nor’ wrester under bi
“Storm ea espe rately, “Dm
goin; sport for provisions: It's
Iie thie Reape anning & hort din na Place
like this. Keep w my girlies,
Halliday, yu send to Ben
The Sant mashed. into her brown face.
away from the island till
better. woatoe ch, dad. dad ! are you sure it’s
safe foi for you to
perhaps not; baer im not going to see you
Oo young creoters ots dlucreye ed baby | al
starve ‘fore my eyes. ain’t done yet.
It'll rise fore cad Don’t either of
you ventase ont of the Gee
“Oh, don’t go, Uncle Davy!” I cried, full of
There’s but one sweetheart for me, near or | i
days and we ‘pew
of
oa. your baby's Sof
wel
are ape ing a terrific gale arose | hi
dark foreboding 5 bat. he spy, ly patted my my chosk,
then kissing bot and
seonded fo the Jaa nding’ place, launched his past
tl
ety we lost sight of him in the trongh of
10 op
8o we wer
Grant and I. Toward reacherous
gale le began ain fo fise— before nightfall it was
ith all its
“he Leht-kee; er od ‘ot come back,
Martha and ‘aid
lighted the om mip
come —and I r tel
sleep, anc ‘nd seated myself by his. dite be ie
fer @ while eh came fom
waves the signal—he is a stranger—I do not
know him. Merciful Heaven! they are in a
trough of the sea—the ey are gunwale under—
ey will be ned |”
But no! the boat ro80 bravely out of the en-
gulfing waters high on a frothing wave. I saw
the figures of the two men—the signal of rescue
a | which one was cheerily waving.
“They can never effect a
said to ‘Martha Grant
e kept her wild, strained eyes fixed on the
advancin on
“You don’t know Ben,” she answered, in
hoarse whisper; "he will land or die! Iie has
somehow found out our strait.” She dashed
down the glass. «I eaunot see, him drown—
cannot!” and with s heart-breaking
a landing—never !” I
h, God!
bending 4 O nny te vel, looked in ory, she pan k down in @ heap on
“T think my father is drowned. 3, ee said, in rT place at the window. Ina . sort of
a strange, sobbing voico; “yes, I am sure of | f ial yee iomt atched the two men as
HI nly knows what will become of us | they led desperately to gain the landing.
‘ou must go to bed, Miss Edith. You] Ben Halliday was the first to leap ashore—
Took ‘ike a ghost. will keep up the light.” companion followed more leisurely.
“No!” I answered; ‘we will be companions ere! They are safe 1” I cried to
in labor as well as in distress. I shall mind the Marthe ‘Gran .
eacon in ites yo be ote are of it ed to her feet, snatched up my
ni
quite as well as Com
fire the keeper OP tite this!
‘is boat in the mornin;
Al
Buteven as Tes said it, 1 threw my arms around '
H
her and burst out crying on her shoulder.
did not appear with the morning. M:
on saw it again. Somewher
the island and Gos] sport
ight the wild northeast gales Low,
a, Snocke: us with its snarling, b
e beacon did not fail. oe watched that well
rough al
ing me, a very queen of Joxury and ore
gance in past who
money like water, , eiving g freely, mating: freely.
y| And now T am to dio of starvation! “Oh, the
terriblo "eatite in such a fate, Marthe | What
would my old-time Saterers rs gay it ift they knew it?
Merciful d Heaven 1 wi us
band? For bis ands ‘ sake ho would be sorry,
would he not? Even though he hates me, he
ul. t like to hear that I had met so
m2”
entreated Martha.
and go to sleep. Your
er—your eyes are quite
id. Your husband 1 never hated you, Edith—
even if he said so, you should not have believed
im—it was mora! y ims ossible |
being could know you hate ”
“7 ought pever 0 have come fo hero,” ” I cried,
idl; en a sorry burden upon you.
But Se mo ‘and m ild you ould, have .sus-
ined your own wn life {fon nger.
eho closed her hand firmly on my Eps.
“Stop! You shall not say that.
pillow, and there
en I awoke a ray of | sunshine was slanting
in at a window of the Beside mo stoo
Marthe, Grant, holding something i in her hand—
alive sea bir
oe the said; wae a3 ou ng gull. He
was blown against the light, ht him
without int mac rouble. Seo!’ his breast is bleed-
ing where he struck the glass, What shall I do
t+ wesend a message by him to the
mainland? Oh, Martha, Tl have heard of such
things!”
Bho smiled sadly.
“T do not see how,
qhen, too, we cannot compel the bird to go that
wa Te must trust to Heaven to guide him!” I
cried, and ran in feverish haste for my paper
and pen. I sat do wh on Bertie’s bed and wrote
those words :
DANOEE Roce, rp-OcEAN,
“The light-keeper is di women and a
child are here, without fael or protinion, Come to
our mip at once, or it will be too la
sed this paper in a bit of oiled silk a:
fasoned it around the throat of the tightoved,
flutterit 8 gull. Then Martha opened the window
and releneod
—we watched him go
with it
“But he can never reach the shore,”
her.
Merthsi “he is hurt—his strength is spen' at aid
- “Re, nat hope died at its birth.
ll that interminable day we watched the
bleu k, empty sea. Would it be possible to signal
& passing sail? We saw none, save in the far
stance.
Another da: came, full of want and despair.
With her fat ere glass in her hand, Martha
Grant ‘stood for hours oe the tower-window
, Who still ke nt her
post at the window, called to me, sudden! ly :
“ eli Raith | Come here 1”
‘ertie and flew to ber side. She
put eel alee 's glass in! and,
cried, hoarsely 5 og yonder—
tow: a the main!
I adj justed the lass, and saw in the distance
a a big, luminens ot upon the water—in fact, a
Martha a grasped my hand and he a
face
e fishing-boat, is it not YY said I.
“ How dare it Zontare | out 2B such a sea ?
matgmbling from to foot, she snatched
he gla 88 from me ond Saanned the far-off spec!
” Wo shall see | I f
ectrified. A vaguo, desperate ¢
wi
Who would ever get it? |
ner.
was eowing @ toward the mainland f
baby agit with him down the stair.
ed.
“ oh, Ben! what brought yon to our help wr
gasped.
“Twas this morning.” he said, incoherently,
“that a gent) ad come 0 Gore
0
ort with some friends aboard a ® yacht—lote of
ne folks do come there nowadays, you know
walking on the beach, and found a dead
at (ashed ashore with your little letter tied
his neck, and he came in grea ste
for my boat—God bless him 1—to pnt off to your
help, and showed m me what was written on
pa er, and we got some, stores ogee,
ni take a sip a the wine! Mrs. Brandt, you
are fainting, too
T rallied, and Jooked around the room, miss-
ing Bertio instant]
ere is my el nid 2” I cried.
Martha done wi
Before Ha! alliday could answer 8 shadow dark-
ened the doorway. I looked and saw the
man who had found my letter on the be: ach
who hai wurried to our rescue with Martha! iJ
“What has
-|lover—just entering, with my boy
™ T ‘have taken the liberty to give the little fel-
low his breakfast,” he began, then. stopped,
Our eyes met!
There, on the threshold of that room, with m;
n| me @ moment, then staggered bac!
st
Meta in burst from his doath- yee lips.
“geal
with fear, Iran to 0 seine my boy.
“Git ve him to im e! Oh, Gilbert, give him to
melt Smplot red.
What! is chid ours?” he cried,
fiercely, holdin him straight away from, mej
‘yours and mine? And you have been hidin:
here with him all this while? You have key
om me ail Knowled dge of hin and o! yourse!
alike? Edith, my wife, my y arte”
‘© was down at my feet linging to y dress,
lieedless both of Halliday. ant arthe Grant,
lifting to mine a face white with a, peony.
“Torgive me! Forgive me!” groaned ;
te this child’s sake, Edith, if Mer nothing
ols
Forgive you? What do you mean ?” I fal-
torod. = You told mmo o with your own lips that
you despised mnothiat “eur80
“Stop, Edith! It was a crcl lie! Teas mad
a
have patience with me till T could earn ‘or you
another fortune.”
T stood speechless,
Halliday drew Martha Grant from the room,
and closed tho coo
= me.
rly for y« wakes confia tI should one
fay find yo! . rune bas been kind t.
me. Come old home, darling!
True, you. whee ev. eee me—nev er will, perhaps,
“bis shoulders—looked
down into he s passiounto, imploring eyes.
“T, too, o a confession to make, Gilbert.
Im your wealth. T squandered
it spire on, but if suffering can wipe out
my sins, I ought to be forg given. In the old days
my heart, I think, Jay dea withi
we parted i and I knew
you. Oh, Gilbert, Gilbert, t take me to yourself1”
'e opened his arms and folded me in them—
baby and I together.
wi Dans er Rock that day, and
Marthe Grant went us. Halliday remained
to take care ‘ot the light till a keeper
Eytan ean ‘an 5
a re married, and
my busband funniched ‘the ‘Qowry, of the bride.
na t back to the home from which I had
fled. ver eaw the island more,
dreams I live over again the peril and the terror
of Danger Rock.”
te Prorir’s Home Jovaat contains the most
a Tei is no fisherman,” she answered ; “it is | interesting serial and shot to be found in any
some one coming to the rook te us! I see two | American periodical. It is not only the cheapest but
men in her—one is ing a signal. I would | the best story paper publish: Wi a
know that boat near oF rTareit is Ben Halliday’s | literature should subscribe for it, For the
Martha [” gum of thirty-five cents (if received on f
December Ist) 8
The Suspense of the moment turned me faint ne
and sick.
“Oh, are you sure ?” es
“ ¥es, yes ao she ried,
comes on is steering straight for ithe
light. Ben is ot the tiller—the other
°
gape “how fast she in
eel
months for only frenty-Ave cents, andy.
ceive. useful premium i ition. Koad the sth
page, aleo the Premium List on pages 14, 19 and 16.
Dat 0 nin
oe