simple life in that remote nook of old England. They had been married well nigh twenty years, and in that period had experienced as much of the joys and sorrows of life, as is the ordinary lot of most mortals in their lowly sphere. Owen, a native of Sennen, had, when quite a boy, gone to sea, joined his Majesty's navy, and after some ten years' service, returned to, and settled down in, his old home. He married Ellen, whom he had known and loved since they were children together, and, taking up their abode in the little cottage above the Cove, Owen gained his livelihood principally by fishing, but he also made some profits by cultivating a bit of ground which he rented a short distance from his cottage. Ellen was skilful at her needle, and worked for the squire's family, and for some of the more well-to-do among the villagers. They had had five children; of these the boy and girl above-mentioned were the only ones that remained to them. Two had died when infants; one boy had been drowned at sea,—a calamity which his mother never recovered.

The inhabitants of the few scattered cottages on the seashore, which formed the hamlet of Sennen Cove, were in those days a rude, and almost savage, set of people. They professed, indeed, to gain their livelihood by fishing, but in reality smuggling and wrecking were their chief employments. The wreckers of Cornwall have gained an unenviable notoriety. The men of Sennen had, owing to the fringe of rocks which surround their coast, to the violence of the tempests which raged there, and to the absence, in those days, of any lighthouses or light-ships on the shore, full opportunity for carrying on their cruel and nefarious occupation. Many a gallant ship, when within sight of home, was, by false lights and signals, ensnared into the very midst of that maze of rocks which bristle round the Land's End, there to be dashed to pieces, while its crew found a watery grave in the angry surf, or more luckless still, succeeded in reaching land, only to be put to death by the inhuman hands of those, who should have been the first to rescue them.

It was but natural that men who were accustomed to partake in such deeds of infamy, should be little removed from barbarians, and that any among them who tried to lead a more humane or respectable life, should be exposed to jeers, mockery, or even persecution.

Such was the case with Owen Tresilian. He had served

many years in the fleet, had seen much hard service, and been engaged in several naval battles with the French; he held very different ideas of honour and honesty from those entertained by his fellow-villagers. He was a brave man, who would not suffer any act of cruelty or meanness to be done in his presence; his undaunted pluck was recognised by all. Bad as the Sennen men were, yet the better ones could not but respect Owen, while the worst feared him. Still there had, alas! been occasions when even so upright a man as Tresilian had yielded to temptation, and joined in that which in his inmost soul he abhorred.

Twice, indeed, when his wife's health had been failing, when his children had been crying for bread, when fishing had failed, and there seemed no means to provide for the wants of his family, Owen, unknown to his wife, had joined in the plunder of vessels, which foundered on the rocks close by. He had shared in no attempt on either occasion to lure these ships to destruction, in fact, there was considerable doubt, whether the Sennen people had caused these wrecks, and Owen had been persuaded to go down late at night, and help to pick up the plunder which was washed on the shore, by one of his companions, to whom he had shown considerable kindness, and who was in many respects superior to the rest of the villagers, but not above joining occasionally in their dishonest enterprises.

It was only by increased comforts that his wife discovered what Owen had done, and very bitter was her grief. She implored him with tears never to act thus again. She knew it had been done for her sake, which almost made her feel as if she had been an accessory in the sin. It was the remembrance of this which had made her so anxious, during her last hours, to induce her husband to promise never to consort with wreckers again.

Ellen Tresilian was a good woman, living up to the light she possessed. The last century was notoriously dark and profane. Religion was openly disregarded by all classes. There never was a period in England of lower morality. All vices abounded, drinking to excess, profligacy, riot, cruelty, neglect of the poor, oppression of the weak. But there were, as always, even in the darkest ages of the Church, exceptions to this rule; bright spots here and there; men and women sometimes in obscure towns and villages, sometimes amid all the vice of the great metropolis, might

be found leading a holy and a godly life, shining forth like stars on this dark night of iniquity. Though the Church of England was almost lifeless, her clergy for the most part idle or devoted to pleasure, neglecting their holy functions, and only performing those duties which the law demanded of them, yet there were exceptions also among them. Good men and true, who led lives of holy self-denial and earnest prayer, who were not content with preaching to their flocks every Sunday a mere dry morality, but who in burning words placed before them the old, old story of the Gospel, and pointed to the cross of Jesus, as the only refuge for the weary and sin-burdened soul.

Not many years before our story commences, the great apostle of the eighteenth century, the saintly John Wesley, had made England ring, from north to south and from east to west, with the glorious sound of the gospel of Christ, proclaimed in such a way as that age had never heard before. The holy man had passed into Cornwall; he had gathered around him the rough miners of the interior, and the wild fishermen and wreckers of the coast. In spite of every opposition he preached to them of Jesus. He told them. that God loved them, steeped in every crime as many of them were; he assured them that God was their Father, and they His children, far as they had wandered from His fold. Many hearts were touched by his earnest words, tears trickled down hard and weather-beaten faces which had never been moistened by a tear before, and hands, once stained in crime, were now uplifted in prayer. In no part of England was the preaching of John Wesley more crowned with success than in Cornwall; men who had been eminent for fighting, drinking, and all manner of wickedness, now became eminent for sobriety, piety, and all manner of goodness. The wreckers, who had become such a scandal to humanity, and given the county so evil a repute, were everywhere now on the decrease; only the worst characters indulged in this cruel business; neither was smuggling so universal as before.

Ellen Tresilian was only a child when she first heard Mr. Wesley preach at St. Sennen. His words sank deep into her heart, the impression they made was never effaced. Owen's mother was also among the number of those whose hearts and lives were changed by listening to the gospel message so plainly delivered, and it was owing to her earnest

admonitions, and to the good seed which she planted early in her son's heart, that though he was not what in those days was called a Methodist, yet he was honest, upright, and well-conducted, in comparison to most of the men in the village.

At that period neither national nor Sunday schools existed. Only here and there could a man or woman be found, who was able to read, and no shame was felt on account of such ignorance. Children were allowed to grow up without any education, except what their parents were able to give them, or what they learned from dames, who in some villages set up schools on their own account. To teach reading was generally the extent of their knowledge. Those who were able to write and cypher, were regarded as very learned and superior persons.

It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that Owen Tresilian could neither read nor write. Ellen had learned to read out of an old Family Bible, which was an heirloom in the family. Her father, who was a clever man in his way, for he not only could read but write a little too, had taught her in his leisure hours. She was his only child; so when he died, very soon after her marriage, she inherited the old Bible; every evening she would read out of it to her husband, who listened reverently and attentively to the sacred words. And when her children grew up, she taught them to read too. Little Mary would often sit before the fire with the large volume on a chair beside her, poring over the pages; sometimes she would read stories from it aloud, while her mother worked, and her father and brother mended their nets. Thus the whole family were quite familiar with sacred history-perhaps more so than poor folk are in our own days-for the Bible, a Prayerbook, and a selection of Wesley's hymns, were the only books they possessed, and over and over again was the sacred volume, and especially the Gospels, read through.

Ellen Tresilian, never strong, had sunk into a consumption, which had carried her off rapidly at the last, leaving her husband and children overwhelmed with grief in their cheerless and desolate abode.

The body of the good wife and mother was committed to the grave in the little churchyard of St. Sennen, a bleak, dreary spot indeed, very different from the neat, well-kept churchyards nowadays happily so common. In those times a cross

was never seen above a grave; at St. Sennen the headstones were mostly of the coarse granite peculiar to the district. Here and there an urn or a broken column surmounted a tomb, but these belonged to the more wealthy of the parishioners. The churchyard was as ill-kept and untended as the church, presenting no symbol of hope or comfort to mourning hearts. But the beautiful and cheering words of the service, with which, in sure and certain hope of a blessed resurrection, the Church of England commits her children to the earth, then, as now, spoke of peace and joy, and of a happy life beyond the grave.

The three mourners had returned to their cottage. They sat, silently round the fire. Owen's head rested on his hand; his eyes stared vacantly before him. Philip was mending a net in a very mechanical way; his hands moved, but his heart was not in his work. He was thinking of his loved and lost mother. Little Mary had reached down the big Bible from its shelf, and was poring with tearful eyes over its sacred pages.

The father was the first to break the silence.

"We have a hard life before us, children," he said; "it has been bad enough indeed hitherto, but now without your good mother, who helped and cheered us so, it's a sorry look out for us all."

"Yes, father," said little Mary, "but mother used often to say when she was ill, and knew that she was going to die, that we were not to fret when she was gone, but do all we could to cheer and help one another."

"I know she did, child, but how can we help fretting? How can I alone do everything for you both? and what's to become of you, Molly, when Philip and I are out fishing all day, and sometimes of a night too? You can't be left all alone here; you would be frightened, I know; and who's to get your meals for you 1?"

"Oh, never mind about me, father!" said Mary. "I'm not afraid to be alone, neither by day nor by night; there's no one would do me any harm, I'm sure. Mother taught me how to sweep out the room, and showed me how to cook the dinner for you and Phil, so don't trouble yourself about me, father."

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'Yes, child, but there are other things to think of. Your mother used to earn a good bit of money with her needle. Often when fishing failed, and I could make