ome if he deserted his post.

"There is a beautiful poem on the subject by Miss Carey. I will repeat a
few of the last verses."

Then Mr. Lacelle repeated in a clear, mellow voice, whose slight foreign
accent lent it an additional charm to Eric's ear,--

"So faintly calling and crying
Till the sun is under the sea,--
Crying and moaning till the stars
Come out for company.
He thinks of his brother and sister,
Asleep in their safe, warm bed;
He thinks of his father and mother;
Of himself as dying--and dead;
And of how, when the night is over,
They must come and find him at last;
But he never thinks he can leave the place
Where duty holds him fast.

"The good dame in the cottage
Is up and astir with the light,
For the thought of her little Peter
Has been with her all the night.
And now she watches the pathway,
As yestereve she had done;
But what does she see so strange and black
Against the rising sun?
Her neighbors are bearing between them
Something straight to her door;
Her child is coming home, but not
As ever he came before.

"'He is dead!' she cries; 'my darling!'
And the startled father hears,
And comes and looks the way she looks,
And fears the thing she fears;
Till a glad shout from the bearers
Thrills the stricken man and wife--
'Give thanks, for your son has saved our land,
And God has saved his life!'
So there in the morning sunshine
They knelt about the boy,
And every head was bared and bent
In tearful, reverent joy.

"'Tis many a day since then; but still,
When the sea roars like a flood,
Their boys are taught what a boy can do
Who is brave, and true, and good;
For every man in that country
Takes his son by the hand,
And tells him of little Peter,
Whose courage saved the land.
They have many a valiant hero
Remembered through the years,
But never