ionally feeling the tower vibrate to such an extent that the
lantern ceases its revolutions. This, however, rarely happens. The tower
is strongly built of stone and brick, and, although it has seen many a
storm since 1795, it is staunch enough to weather many more.

Down under the cliffs, where the "cruel, hungry foam" is dashing among
the rocks, the seaward view is grand and awful. In Turtle Bay, as we
casually learned, the dead bodies of those shipwrecked farther up the
coast generally come ashore, and a ghastly kind of interest attaches to
the place. For miles along the shore the same sad tale is being
continually told: it is the solemn burden of the sea's loud wail. We
heard it at Fire Island; walking along the beach opposite Sayville, we
heard it again in the billows that broke over the wreck of the Great
Western; it haunted us at Quogue, and rang in our ears on the lovely
beach at the Hamptons; it followed us to Amagansett, and within a few
miles of the point we can sit in a veritable "graveyard" filled with
beams, broken timbers and rusty iron bolts, the rejected spoils of the
ocean. For the moment one cannot help sympathizing with the shepherd of
the _Noctes_, who "couldna thole to lieve on the seashore." There is, in
truth, something disturbing to the imagination and confusing to the
senses in its everlasting thunder. We see it and leave it--perhaps for a
month, possibly for a year--and it is hard to realize when we return
that throughout the long interval it has never for a single moment been
at rest.

But the time comes when we must retrace our steps to the world which
seems so far away. Again we roll over the pasture-land, swept by
constant winds, sometimes by storms, and long before we reach Neapeague
have learned the truth and felt the sentiment that inspired Ayres's
lines:

There is no country like Montauk's rude isle.
Strange are its rolling hills, its valleys' smile,
Its trees lone dying in their ancient place,
As if in sorrow for a dying race.

JENNIE J. YOUNG.

"FOR PERCIVAL."

CHAPTER XLVI.

THE RESULT OF PERCIVAL'S ECONOMY.

[Illustration]

Judith's letter lay on the table still. Bertie had not come to claim it,
and she had not come home.

Having ascertained these facts, Percival went to his own room, and,
finding his tea set ready for him, ate and drank hurriedly, hesitating
whether he should go and meet her. Standing by th