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ing. Soon a premature night began to settle down upon everything, and we caught glimpses of the shore only by the flash of the lighthouse lamp, which came at intervals. Long after the other guests had gone to bed the Professor and I sat watching the storm from my windows. Once we saw the rockets of a ship in distress and heard the answering boom of the six-pounder at the life-saving station. "The Lord's Noblemen," said the Professor as he pointed to a dozen sturdy men who were launching a boat in a merciless sea. Then a deeper night set in, and the Professor and I retired.

It was not until late on the following afternoon that the storm gave signs of subsiding. The receding of the sea showed deep gullies along the beach and a great amount of wreckage which had been thrown high on the rocks. About eight o'clock the moon broke through the clouds as if to assert its original authority over wind and wave and bathed the shore afresh in its yellow light.

The Professor, as was his daily custom, slung the strap of an oil-skin sack and started for the beach to find possible additions to his collection among the many mineral forms which the sea had uncovered, while I retired to my room to work on a chemical analysis with which I was busying myself at that time. I had hardly worked an hour on my distillation when I heard the gentle knock of the Professor at my door. On opening the door I was met with "A most extraordinary find, Doctor, a most extraordinary find," and the Professor's face fairly beamed as he advanced and laid his sack with a great deal of care upon the table. "Not a Venetian vase," I ventured, as I noticed his precaution, but the only reply I received was, "A most extraordinary find," as he fumbled at the strings of the sack. I was not kept long in suspense, for soon the knots were untied and he drew forth an oddly-shaped vessel, the like of which I had never seen before. On a closer examination the vessel seemed to be made of a fine blueish clay, which, the Professor said, was only to be found on the coast of Wales. The jar had been highly baked, for on being

rapped it gave a metallic ring not unlike that of iron, but it was much lighter than any ore and would easily float, as we found it to be hermetically sealed. The jar was most curiously figured with what seemed to be a religious story. Then the Professor left the room and returned with a much crippled book on Norman Archæology. "As I surmised," he said, "it is the handiwork of the Druid Priests." He rubbed his hands in almost childish glee. "Yes, here it is, a drinking jar of the Celtic Druid, only preserved specimen now in the British Museum," and he turned to a plate which appeared to be a copy to the minutest detail of the vessel before us. The old man was now trembling as he bade me light my alcohol lamp, while he examined the wax in the throat of the jar. "You will assume all responsibility, Professor," I said, as the wax began to drip before the blue flame of the lamp. "We may be uncorking a Geni who will give us no end of trouble." Indeed, I expected to see smoke issue from the jar and to hear a sepulchral voice coming from nowhere, and saying, "At thy service, Master." But none came and the only noise in the room was the constant dripping of the wax, and the Professor rubbing his hands together and chatting in an under-tone. Finally the wax gave way entirely, there was a little puff of air, and the Professor's hand plunged into the jar and returned with a parchment which was seared and yellowed with age. We noticed a peculiar fragrance in the room, a faint smell of incense which rose from the jar as if from an altar which had long since fallen to decay, but still retained the odor of the sacrifice.

I shall never forget the picture of the old Professor as he stood with his hoary head bowed in reverence and said: "Doctor, we are standing in the presence of our fathers." He unwound the parchment which was tied with the thongs of a sheep-skin. It was covered with writing which I recognized as a mixture of Saxon and Norman of about the conquest period.

I will not enter further into the description of the manuscript, but will turn immediately to its contents which I take from my

note-book, where I made as faithful a copy as the condition of the original would permit. The manuscript was dated 1161 A.D., from St. David's Head, which is the most westerly headland of Wales.

Hitherto I have written with my sword, and my manuscript has been the walled towns of mine enemies, but I have made change of my armor and mail for a monk's scowl and gown. How many times during the past twelve-month have I wished myself at the well-filled table of Vortigen, only I know. The blood of my warhardened father is within me. How many times we have dashed to sea, leaving our lands in the care of our women and slaves, to land again and ravage and plunder. We have sacrificed a tithe of our prisoners in honor of our gods, leaving behind the red lights of their burnings, and have gone farther to being again. Yea, we were gluttonous, carving our hogs and filling our bodies with their flesh. We have swallowed down deep draughts of ale, and and all the spiced drinks which do cheer and stimulate.

We have kept the fierce Jutes from our shores, beating back their two-sailed barks with our spikes and arrows. Well do I remember Rowena, my mother, God rest her soul, and how at the friendly feast of Hawsa, when drunk with wine, and soothed by the music of the minstrel, we allowed our swords to slip from our sides. Then did Hawsa order his warriors and henchmen to fall upon us and well nigh killed all save Vortigen my father, Rowena and myself.

Rowena now lies pining at the Danish court of Ethelbert across the sea; my poor father plays the jester for Hawsa the Conqueror, while I, Eric, the direct heir to the lands of Mertia, Wessex and Kent am sold as a layman to these Druid Priests, to be given as a sacrifice should I show rebellion. Rebellion I have shown. Only yesterday were the gods about to be propitiated by the Bishop. A beautiful Saxon girl with flaxen hair and eyes as fearless as the sea on which I look from my cell window was to be put to the knife, when I broke from my place among the charters and

with one strong blow struck the knife from the Bishop's hand and sent it rattling to the rocks below. How I fought them when they overpowered me, these poor hands will show. Yet I would do as much again and more had I my good blade with me for the one look of gratitude which the fearless eyes of Hilda, the Saxon girl, gave me. Twice this day have I seen her at her window across the courtyard and once I heard an echo of my name—

Again I hear the faint chanting of the priests as they come nearer and nearer to my door

Here the manuscript becomes illegible, but I quote from Taine's History of England:

"After the death of Hawsa, Eric, who had taken unto himself a wife by the name of Hilda, assumed the throne and was known as the first king of England. Their rule was a long and prosperous one, and Hilda gave birth to a child by the name of Alfred."

Why the Professor did not return to the Western University with his daughter in the fall, and why he now occupies a prominent place at my hearth stone is, as Kipling would say, another story.

R. R., 'oi.

LONNIE.

It was not yet five, but the twilight of a cloudy March day had begun to settle down about Freeman's hill and the little white. farmhouse beside the Bolton road. All day the clouds had been thickening and as the afternoon waned, the occasional gusts of wind dashed scattered flakes of snow against the little windows, as though to grant them one glance at the brightness within before consigning them to their eternal resting-place. No experienced eye was needed to predict, as the country folk thereabout would say, "a consid'able spell o' weather."

Inside the little sitting room a bright open fire bade defiance to the gathering shadows, and, interrupted by its crackling, the conversation of the two persons sitting busily engaged before it.

One would have said that the modern furnishings seemed a bit unnatural in such a place, nor would the impression have been lessened by a glance at the widow Freeman herself as she gave the finishing touches to a newly trimmed hat upon which she had been working,-a somewhat slender though graceful figure, with a sweet, pale face, and that in her voice and manner which proclaimed her at once not country bred. Seated on a hassock at her feet, absorbed in her first lesson in the art of millinery, was her daughter Alice, a rosy-cheeked girl of fifteen.

The sharp jangle of bells on a passing sleigh came to them; the girl arose and turned to the window. For some moments she stood looking down the hillside at the rapidly disappearing team. "Well," asked her mother, looking up, "who is it?"

"Squire Haskell, just getting home from Bolton," returned the daughter in a low tone. "He went down this morning, taking Letty's things to the seminary, you know"; then with an only half-successful attempt at a smile she added, "Guess Letty will find plenty of arranging to do when she gets to her room. He must have just flung the things in to get back so quickly."

The widow noticed the note of disappointment and there was

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