hardened hand-grasp of an honest man. But
Japhet's face expressed, at the best, but a
ferocious good humour; the features were heavy
and lowering, the black eyes were restless and
cunning, and the half-careless smile on the
mouth had something sinister mingling with its
effrontery. I did not like the man, but I took
good care to show no coldness or aversion. The
keeper of the Hatteras lighthouse, I knew,
could not afford to be exclusive or dainty in his
choice of friends. I remembered the warning
hint of the old boatman, and resolved that I
would be on good terms with my neighbours, if
possible. So I took Japhet Brown into my
dwelling, opened my little store of cordials, and
regaled him with a glass of gin sling and a prime
cigar: luxuries which he appreciated the more
because of their contrast to drams of raw spirit
and coarse tobacco. The young man was less
inquisitive than a Yankee would have been, but
was rather contemptuous and overbearing in
manner; having an evident scorn for the natives
of a city.

"You'll be skeared here, all by yourself, chap,
won't you?" he asked, with half jeering interest
in my forlorn condition. " At Red Bay, now,
there's folks a many, and at Fruit Creek there's
daddy, and my mother, and granny, let alone
six of us boys and gals, while there's neighbours
handy. But here! I wonder a town-bred coon,
like you, should take the berth. Can yew
wrestle?"

"I used to wrestle a bit in bygone times," I
answered with a smile; " I was fond of active
amusements as a boy."

"Can yew shoot?" demanded Mr. Japhet
Brown.

On my replying that I could, he put his
long-barrelled fowling-piece into my hands,
saying, " Try your luck, stranger. You see that
'ere bird, jest perched on the lump of red weed,
floatin' out at sea. Let's see if you can hit her."
To Japhet's amazement, however, instead of
pulling the trigger at once, I waited till the gull
rose on her white wings, and then fired. The
bird heeled over, and fell with a splash, stone
dead, into the sea.

"Whoop! yew air a good 'un, chap! the
best Yankee I ever clapped eyes on! Shake
hands! I'll tell Daddy Brown about that—
forty-five yards clean, and no lie about it!"
And Japhet gave my hand a congratulatory
squeeze that I felt for an hour after; so
great was his delight at my skill. To shoot
flying is in America a much more rare
accomplishment than in England. The best marksmen
of the States pique themselves on their
accuracy with the rifle, whether at a dead mark
or a deer or a squirrel, but with the fowling-
piece they are less expert. I had won Japhet's
esteem, for the time at least, and it was with
unfeigned heartiness that he clapped me on the
shoulder at parting, and renewed his invitation.

"Come when yew please, chap. There's
always lots of pork and bacon; whisky's plenty,
too, and if yew happen in at dinner time on Sabbath
yew'll be welcome. My mother she can fix a
chicken, and roast a chicken, as well as any cook
in Raleigh city. The gals—them's my sisters—
air right down merry ones, and a chat with them
would do yew good, stranger, when you get the
lonesomes upon you." So saying, Japhet turned
on his heel, and strode off towards Fruit Creek
again.

Nothing worth mention occurred during the
remainder of the afternoon. When dusk came
creeping over the low shores, and a deepening
shadow turned the shining azure of the sea first
to the glossy purple of a starling's breast, then to
violet, I went up the ladder to light my beacon
for the first time. It was not without a certain
amount of nervous tremor that I trimmed the
wicks, adjusted the reflectors, and applied the
match. I read over my printed instructions
once again, before I executed my task. I held
my breath, and hesitated before I kindled the
lamps. For the first time, the great importance
of my duties flashed upon me. I was about
to ignite a beacon to whose distant radiance the
eyes of the storm-tossed mariner, in the direst
extremity of his battle with the elements, might
turn for guidance and direction. What mischief
might not be caused by negligence, however
arising, and what a post of trust was mine, after
all, as a sentinel in front of the devouring sea,
watchful for human lives!

Flash! the bright glow broke forth, far to
the north. I saw the distant glimmer over-
swelling mounds of sand and the darkling
surges. A white light! That must be at
Albemarle Sound. They were posting the sentries,
then—the sentries against wreck and calamity.
It was my turn to answer the signal. So I
lighted up my two lamps. A red light and a
green. They had not twinkled for more than,
five minutes before I saw something like a blood-
red star over the waves to the southward. A
red light. The light on Cape Look-out. I
remained for some time in the glazed apartment
which forms the upper story of all lighthouses,
gazing out into the night, and listening to the
moan of the wind. I did not feel so lonely,
somehow, while looking towards those distant
gleams, north and south, which told of a
common purpose, and good-will towards our
race.

"What time, sar, massa like to hab him
supper? Got such a bootiful chicken, sar,
ready to broil if massa give command. And
shall old Aunt Polly boil kettle for tea?"

It was my black housekeeper, eager to be
employed, recalled me from æsthetic meditations,
and I left the steady lamps to burn alone.

My every-day life, as custodian of the Hatteras
Light, was an exceedingly monotonous one.
Yet dull as it was, it could not be called intolerable.
It is true that there were times when I
heartily envied Aunt Polly singing among her
saucepans, and Juba carolling some interminable
negro ditty as he chopped wood or cleaned my
boots; but at other periods I was more at ease.
Sometimes a boat touched at my little quay, and
I had the pleasure of an hour's gossip with the