entered the room, with a gloomy face and tearful eyes.

Please, ma'am, Captain Seton's compliments, and he would be glad to see Mrs. Milburn."

"Let me see him, Clara!" exclaimed Mrs. Bradley. "Commission me to speak for you."

Would she had been free to do this! but, alas! there was no escape, no refuge. Basil's faith, which had saved her on that fatal evening, was powerless to save her now. "No, no, Mrs. Bradley," she answered, "I must see Captain Seton."

"Please, ma'am," exclaimed Martha, addressing Mrs. Milburn, in a voice half inaudible with emotion, "let missus see him, do! Oh, ma'am, don't leave us! I don't know what I shall do if ever you and Miss Mabel go away!"

Basil had heard Martha's announcement, and he entered the room. He did not heed their surprise, and he spoke in the hard, articulate tone of intense effort.

"Let Captain Seton wait. Mrs. Milburn will see him presently. Go, Martha." And Martha left the room. "I've come back," | he continued. "I'd left something unsaidI must say it now. Leave us, mother. I'll ring-I sha'n't be long and then Captain Seton can come." Half awed by her son's manner, Mrs. Bradley left the lovers together.

As soon as they were alone, Basil addressed Clara in the same painful tone. Notwithstanding all his efforts at self-control, she could see how his whole frame trembled with emotion; but it was her punishment to be forced to torture the man she loved.

"You've said 'no' to my prayer, Clara; but I didn't tell you every thing. There was one thing I never meant you to know-had you said 'yes' to me, you never would have known it but my love for you is so deep, that I dare not omit any thing which may turn the scale in my favor. O Clara!" he exclaimed, passionately, "you must be mine. Weigh us fairly in the scale, and then say if he has acted a better part toward you than I have that he is more worthy of the reward than I am."

"My gratitude for all you have done for me can never be too great." But it racked her soul that, when he asked for love, she could only give him gratitude.

"Not gratitude," he answered, vehemently, "love-my love, which springs from admiration and esteem-my love, which is worship, if ever saint were worshiped. O Clara! I believed in you then, as the world believes in you now. I asked for no proof, I held only by my faith. That 1st of September, last year, I brought you the letter which saved you from beimg sent away from this house."

"You did," she answered, in a low, trembling voice.

"And I brought back Mabel. I told you I had had a long argument with Tom Milburn."

"You did!-that you had at last convinced him of my innocence."

“I did say that," he answered, “but it wasn't the truth!"

"Not the truth!" she exclaimed, with surprise. "Why, it was his letter!"

"Yes, his own hand," he rejoined, in a bitter tone-written words.' I did try to shame the truth out of him, that's true enough; but he only laughed at me, drove me half mad with his cursed insinuations, stung me to the quick with fresh lies against you. I left him, but he hadn't shaken my

belief."

Still, he wrote that letter," she urged. "I went to that woman," he replied, in deliberate voice, "and I bribed her with money to make him write it-bribed him with money to let me bring Mabel back to you. I had made money that morning in a lucky speculation-no matter the sum-they had it."

"What!" she cried, in utter bewilderment-"you believed in me, though he still persisted in that shameful accusation?"

"Innocent or guilty from his lying lips would have made no difference."

"Then your faith was all that saved me on that sad evening?"

"It was," he answered, proudly. "And that faith," she continued, 66 not converted into assurance until his solemn

death-bed declaration?"

was

"It was not! O Clara! have I not deserved your love?"

"You have," she answered, passionately -the words flew to her lips-" would it were mine to bestow!"

'It is one word."

"I dare not utter that word."

"Have mercy!" he cried; "don't trifle with me, I can scarcely bear myself;" " and the tears were full in his eyes, and he knelt to her as she sat with face averted from him and hands hard clasped; and with broken sentences he urged his prayer.

"O Clara! if you are my wife, a vista opens of brightest happiness, every joy of existence bears a tenfold charm; if you are not my wife, every thing fades away, dark, unprofitable life; without a joy-be that sunshine of my life."

She made no answer to his words. "O Clara!" he cried, in utter desperation, "can you say you do not love me?"

Could she say she did not love him ?-this man who had pawned a lie on his faith in her honor this man who had worshiped her with all the chivalry of ancient knighthood!

"I do love you, Basil!"

As she spoke the words she rose from her chair, and started from him as she had started from Seton's kiss.

No need to start; those words she had spoken were in themselves enough for Basil nay, too much for him to realize, too much for his heart wrought to such a pitch of painful tension.

"Thank God!" he muttered; and, though he was a true man, brave and manly with the best, he burst into tears.

How proud she could have felt of this power she held over the man she loved!— but pride was only anguish now-she flew to his side.

"No, no, Basil!" she exclaimed, in a voice of anxious expostulation; "I do love you, that's all I am able to say; wait till you have heard every thing. I can never be your wife!"

"What do you mean? don't torture me," he answered, in a piteous tone.

"It's my fault," she rejoined, in broken sentences; "I've prayed that you might not love me. I have striven to be cold toward you, and all the while my heart was burning with love. I ought to have left this house, but I was too weak for that; my love kept me spellbound here."

"For God's sake, what does all this mean?" he exclaimed, in wellnigh savage voice; he could endure the terrible strain no longer.

"It means that the saint you have worshiped is a weak, miserable woman." "This is folly," he answered. She went to the bell and rang it. 'Captain Seton will come!" he exclaimed, in amazement at her act.

"He must come," she rejoined; "he is concerned in this affair."

"Come what may," he cried, in increased astonishment and anger, swear you will never marry that man."

"I will never marry him," she answered. "I do swear that!"

Basil was about to withdraw.

"You must stay, Basil; it will soon be over-very bitter, but short."

So they waited for Captain Seton; and Basil saw her change from the woman he had loved into the woman of that September evening-rigid figure, countenance of painful tension, and eyes of hard, scornful gaze.

Seton entered the room.

"I have sent for you," she exclaimed, on the moment of his entrance, in a tone of contempt and abhorrence.

We are not alone," he observed, turning to Basil.

"Designedly," she answered. "Mr. Basil Bradley has made me an offer he has full right to hear all that I say to you. You assert that you have a claim on my hand?"

"I do, Clara; a prior claim to all elsethe strongest claim a man can have." "But if Mrs. Milburn chooses?" interposed Basil.

"She has no liberty of choice," rejoined Seton, calmly; "she has bound herself to me by an act she cannot cancel."

"Monstrous!" cried Basil, nettled by Se

marry any one but you. Well, Mr. Basil Bradley has made me an offer-read it to him, and let him hear why I cannot be his wife."

"Have mercy on yourself!" exclaimed Seton.

66

I have," she rejoined; "truest mercyI destroy your power over me-read it." "No," he answered.

"Afraid!" she cried, contemptuously. "You would not have been afraid to send a copy of that letter to Mr. Basil Bradley. What! twice a coward ?-ready enough to sin in secret-ready enough to malign in secret— not brave enough to do it openly!"

"Mrs. Milburn!" exclaimed Seton, in a tone of menace.

Basil started forward; Clara waved him aside.

"Read, I say!"

"I refuse," answered Seton, doggedly.
"Then I must read it myself."

"I possess the letter," rejoined Seton. "I possess the copy you sent to me." She drew the letter from her pocket. "This letter is dated the 1st of September, 1873, nine o'clock at night," and with low but intenselyclear articulation she read the contents: "Mrs. Bradley, you have branded me with guilt; before you receive this letter the accusation will be true. You, and all your household, have condemned me; before you receive this letter the condemnation will be justified. I leave this house with Captain Seton. No doubt of guilt now! Yours faithfully, Clara Milburn."

While she read the letter Basil shrank away, and, almost blinded with agitation, staggered to a chair.

"Tell him the rest," she exclaimed, fiercely; and for the moment Seton quailed before her gaze as he had quailed before; "tell him how you kissed me that night. No, no!" she cried, in a half-hysterical laugh-"tell him that I told you to kiss me; you wouldn't have dared else to defile my lips. So, Captain Seton," she added, tauntingly, "you are harmless now. The one being who in my eyes outweighs the whole world-the one being who believed in me when the whole world turned aside-the man I revere and love, is lost to me forever! All that makes life worth living-all joy, all happiness-all is destroyed-wrecked! Go and blazon that letter about as you will fling the story broadcast-it can do me no more harm."

ex

"Enough of this rodomontade!" claimed Seton; "don't blame me for this mad conduct; you might have kept the disgrace a secret, and married Mr. Basil Bradley, if you had chosen."

"I might have bought the letter from you for so much money," she answered, with intense scorn; "I might have married him, and left it for you to boast that the delay in directing an envelope had saved the wife of Basil Bradley from being the companion of Captain Seton. No! better he should learn the truth in time, and be saved from such disgrace. I won't detain you any longer," she added, contemptuously; "you can go! Remember, the worst is done. I repeat, make what use you like of that letter-it can do me no more barm. Good-morning, Captain

Seton!" and she bowed to him with a courtesy which marked her contempt and scorn.

Seton turned to go with an embarrassed air-crestfallen, like a beaten cur.

"One word, Captain Seton!" exclaimed Basil, starting from his chair.

"What do you want, sir?" asked Seton, turning savagely on Basil.

"Basil!" exclaimed Clara, in a tone of deprecation.

There was no cause for apprehending any fracas. Basil was now thoroughly master of himself; he belonged to that order of men who, face to face with a great catastrophe, are perfectly calm.

"It is only a matter of business, Mrs. Milburn," he replied, quietly. He threw an emphasis on the words "Mrs. Milburn." She understood only too well the meaning of that emphasis, and shrank away from him.-"Your uncle, Captain Seton, has confided to me the arrangement of certain business matters on your behalf-certain bills-"

"Curse it!" muttered Seton, between his teeth.

"We will, if you please, discuss the matter outside," continued Basil. "I will follow you, Captain Seton ;" and Seton and Basil entered the garden.

Well, it was all over-the terrible moments had come and gone. She had been true to herself; she had not in one jot deceived the man she loved; she had told him every syllable of the bitter truth. But Basil!-all her thoughts flew to Basil. When she remembered how he had loved and honored her beyond all measure of common love and honor, she felt how terrible the blow would be to him.

"Basil, poor Basil!" she cried, and the tears she could not shed before filled her eyes; "how you'll suffer-and my love, which could have soothed every sorrow of your life; my love, which could have lulled every pain; my love must be thrust out, and you must bear this sorrow alone. I have erred, I must bear the torment; but he has not erred, why must he suffer? Oh, tell of innocence to be linked in love and sympathy with guilt! Let him find some noble woman, who may build up the faith I have destroyed-who may raise again the noble standard trampled beneath my feet."

And with her thoughts still centred upon Basil, Basil returned from the interview with Seton.

Good-by, Mrs. Milburn," he said, briefly ; and he turned from her. She lingered near him. "Don't let me detain you; good-by."

Good-by," she muttered, faintly, and she retired toward the door. He thought she had gone, and he threw himself heavily on the sofa, and buried his face in his hands.

She felt it was all over-she knew she must go; she meant to leave the room-to leave the house forthwith-but the volition of the heart was stronger than the purpose of the head. She flew back to the sofa; she threw herself on her knees, and clasped his hand with the desperation of drowning agony.

"Have mercy, Basil! I was mad when I wrote that letter-mad, writhing under a sense of horrible injustice, cruelty, scorn; mad, for degradation seemed the only sorry spite I could fling in the face of the world; mad, for all faith had gone in Heaven's justice or man's mercy. I was thirsting for some sympathy, some support, some kindness-no matter where-but I never loved him! When I said I would fly with him, it was hate and defiance, and a desperate feeling that death would come quickly and end it all. O Basil! you could worship me when I stood, as you thought, a saintly being, superior to all trial, all temptation! pity me, now that I have proved myself a weak woman-conquered, not conqueror-but not guilty-not guilty! No, thank Heaven! saved by you! Not guilty, not fallen-because I can cling to you, and pray for mercy, and clasp your hands with mine. Oh, it would be as noble to look down with love as to look up with admiration! I do love you, Basil; I have veiled my feelings with silent unconcern and studied coldness, all the while treasuring every little word you uttered-every glance every look. I said to myself, 'I must love him in my own heart, though I can never be his wife.' O Basil! is there no hope, no joy for me? must this joy, which has begun to dawn at the end of dreary years of misery, be hidden by darker clouds? I knew this day must come. I thought I could mask my sorrow with calmness, and steal away in silence; but I never measured the agony which racks me now. Forgive me, if you can. Love me, Basil! dear Basil! If you cannot love me, I must die!"

His hands were marked, and red, with the convulsive clasp of her fingers.

Mrs. Bradley entered the room, followed

:

"Basil!" she cried, in her amazement. "My wife!" he added; and he drew her toward him.

"My wife!" he repeated, with emphasis. She burst into tears, and would have fallen to the ground, but he held her in his arms.

People said that Mrs. Basil Bradley worshiped her husband; nor were they wrong in this affirmation: people also said that Basil Bradley worshiped his wife, and she was worthy of his worship; and most joyful of all thoughts of his inmost heart was the thought that, when the bright stone of honor was dim with temptation, his faith alone had saved a woman, who was indeed a precious jewel among women, in finest and noblest qualities of womanhood.

BOW-SHOOTING WITH

A HERMIT.

E were scarcely aware of the coming

WE of a squall till it struck us and re

versed our sail, as a side-flaw almost always does when an incompetent person is at the helm. I remember that the boom struck me a sharp rap on the head as it swept round, and in a moment we were driven upon the sand-bar and our boat capsized. We had barely time enough to snatch up our bows and leap out before this occurred, and then a big wave swept over us with great force, landing us all in a heap on the bar, where it left us high and out of water, but by no means dry. Our boat must have foundered, for we never saw it again. We all had presence of mind enough to leap up and run to a point above the reach of the next wave.

Will had lost his quiver with all his arrows in the struggle, and Cæsar, our negro man-of-all-work, had allowed the sea to swallow our haversack, provisions, and all. My arrows, however, thirty-four of them, were safe at my side, and our bows were uninjured notwithstanding the water, they having been oiled that very morning.

"Now look what you've done, Caesar!" cried Will, in stentorian tones, addressing the already terribly - frightened African. "Look what you've done, you black scapegrace! Why didn't you keep the boat before the wind? I've a mind to thrash the ground with you!"

"N-n-neber m-mind, Mars Will; II's done kill a'ready!-neck broke for sho! Ki, what a bref ob wedder dat was! Dis chile not gwine stan' 'sponsible for sich outdacious oncommon whirly-gusts as dat, I tell you now!"

After this little word-passage we all three stood gazing stupidly at each other, the wind almost lifting us from our feet, and the water streaming down our persons. It may as well be understood that we were in a rather startling predicament, literally cast upon an uninhabited island" with no boat in which to leave it, and with not a soul in the world likely to search for us. But I do not desire

was Cæsar. Nevertheless, the predicament remained. Our camp was some five miles away, on the main-land, and hidden from our view by a cluster of diminutive islands. Our boat was gone, and there we stood three as utter exiles as ever storm had banished.

The gale was most furious for an hour or so, and then it subsided almost as suddenly as it had risen. We sat down upon the sand to rest after our struggle with the elements, our faces to the sea, and our backs toward the frondous tuft of trees crowning the central swell of the island. The waves were

singing a grand song, and flinging up their white hands as if keeping time to the music. The sun was barely above the eastern horizon, and now, as the clouds broke away, he threw athwart the rushy islands and the heaving waters a flood of soft splendor not unlike that of a Northern Indian summer. A few white gulls flew wildly about, drifting down the wind, and skimming the summits of the white-caps. The pleasant exhilaration attendant on adventure took possession of me, and as I sat there, with the roar of the sea dinning in my ears, I thought of Selkirk and Robinson Crusoe, and half wished that some of their experiences might befall us. We looked in vain for any sign of our boat. Not even a splinter cheered our eyes. Far southward once I thought I caught sight of a sail, but I was not sure. We all remained silent a long time, and I had just begun a study of Cæsar's lugubrious profile when Will, the most practical of men, suggested that we might find a pleasanter place to discuss our accident by an exploration of our island. This started Cæsar from his reverie, and, getting upon our feet, we took our way along the ridge of sand toward the timbered part of the hummock, a half mile west of us. The water "slushed" in our boots, and the sand made our progress very toilsome, but we persevered, and soon entered a rushy tide-swale, through which we floundered to a gentle slope strewed with tufts of Spanish bayonet and occasional palm-trees. Toiling up this slope, we came into a beautiful grove of palmettos, set on a considerable bluff overlooking a calm stretch of land-sheltered water, beyond which lay the low line of the Florida coast. The sun was now high enough to begin to heat the air, and at Cæsar's suggestion we took off our clothes, wrung the water from them, and hung them up to dry. Having no change of garments, we had to lie around quite naked till nearly noon before the sun and wind had done their work sufficiently. This was just to Cæsar's taste, and he sought out the sunniest spot to be found, where he stretched himself at full length, and slept that oleaginous sleep that only a negro can know, with his face half buried in the hot sand. As for me, I managed to dry some tobacco, and, going out on the nose of the bluff, sat down under a bushy pine and lighted my pipe; for, thanks to my box, my matches were uninjured. From this

position I could see a long crescent of the island, fringed with rushes and tall, flag-like grass, and here and there densely wooded, running close between two smaller bars that seemed barely disconnected from the mainland. Large flocks of water-fowl, sweeping down at a certain point between two tufts of forest, told me plainer than words could that a sheltered estuary thereabout offered a feeding-place for the birds, and I felt sure of some rare sport if the spot could be reached. But how to reach it? In my then condition the question was too abstruse for me, so I contented myself with watching the broad, liberal face of the water smiling so sweetly and benignly back at the now cloudless and peaceful sky. Through the thin wreaths of smoke floating up from my pipe, I had a dreamy vision, for a time, of day splendors parted into fine, gossamer-like shreds, and then I fell into a sweet slumber, lying there nude as Adam before his fall, with the salt breeze blowing over my free limbs, and the song of the sea gently pouring through my dream.

"Boat ahoy!"

I turned in my sleep and half awoke.
"Boat a-ho-y!"

I sprang to my feet. The sun was almost to the meridian, and the sea was like a sheet of glass. Will and Cæsar had fully dressed themselves, and, having tied my shirt to a long stick, the latter was waving it frantically, while the former shouted at the top of his voice—

"Boat a-h-o-y!"

And presently there came a thin, clear shout in response, from a long, low skiff, which, with a single individual as captain and crew, was hugging the dusky fringe of a marsh a half-mile away.

I picked up my pipe and ran down to my companions as I saw the little vessel set her prow in our direction, and got into my clothes as quickly as possible.

"Capital luck - capital luck!" cried "We'll hire the fellow to take us back to Berkley's!"

Will.

The man pulled toward us very leisurely, and when he had come to within a bow-shot of us, he backed his oars, and swinging a heavy double barreled shot-gun across his lap, called out—

"Well, what's wantin'?"

"We want to get away from here,” cried Will. "We were caught in the squall this morning, and had our boat wrecked, and we're here in a sort of tight fix!”

"Well, who are ye?" was the response, in a half growl, the tones of which rasped across the water like a file. He bowed his head as he spoke, as if in deep thought.

"We're a party from over at Berkley's," I answered, "and we want to get back there. We'll pay you well for your trouble if you'll pull us over."

"What's them you've got in yer hands?” "Long-bows."

"What d'ye say?

"Bows-bows and arrows."
"Things to shoot with?"
"Yes."

We heard the fellow mutter something as if to himself, and then he let go a roar of

laughter that set his boat to rocking, and fairly startled us with its suddenness and intensity.

"Bows an' arrers, did ye say?"

"To be shuah," put in Cæsar; "to be shuah, and dey out-shoot yer blame ole shotgun, too, I tell ye now!"

The man laughed again, and then taking his oars he pulled up, and very promptly came ashore. He was a little, wiry fellow, sixty years old, perhaps, but apparently none the worse for wear. His hair was stiff, long, and iron-gray, as were also his beard and eyebrows. He was dressed in a shirt and trousers of coarse cotton cloth, resembling ordinary bed-ticking, and had on an old, greasy otter-skin cap. His feet were clothed in a sort of moccasin-boot, evidently of his own make. His shot-gun, a very long one, was of fine English manufacture, number ten gauge, and of about thirteen pounds weight.

"Well, well, how d'ye all do?" said he, looking curiously from one to another of us, and letting his eyes at last fix themselves upon Will's six-foot-six-inch snakewood bow, a beautifully-finished weapon.

We responded very civilly, and proceeded to more particularly relate our disaster and the nature of our predicament. He listened apparently with much interest. When the story was finished, he winked at me and said:

"Got any terbacker 'bout yer ole clothes?"

"Ole clothes!" repeated Cæsar, with a chuckle. "Like to know what'm call good clothes-yah, yah, yah!"

I promptly offered my pouch, but found that it was chewing-tobacco he wanted.

'Here, Caesar," said Will, "out with your dog-leg, and let this gentleman have a chew."

The negro good-naturedly obeyed, producing a long black twist of Old Virginia.

"That's the docyment," cried the man, delightedly" that's the docyment, darkey. We'll jest divide this 'ere weed right here." So saying he drew a large knife and severed the twist, handing back to Cæsar about onethird of the smaller end thereof. Then depositing an enormous quid in his mouth, he added:

"That's the cl'ar stuff, darkey, cl'ar stuff. Thanky, boy, thanky."

Cæsar grinned confusedly, seeing how his store of precious creature comfort was diminished, but made no remark.

"I s'pose you've not got no sich thing es a flask of the j'yful juice, nor nothin', eh?" (another knowing wink).

I replied that unfortunately we had nothing of the sort.

"Well, well, that can't be holp, I s'pose, but a drop of the stuff wouldn't be onwholesome, 'bout now," he added.

"The next thing," said Will," is to get you to pull us back to Berkley's. What do you say?

"Well, I don't know. It's too hot jest now. We mought as well lay around in the shade here till toward evening an' talk the matter over. It's a good ten miles from here to Berkley's, an' I'm not gwine to try that agin both wind and tide, an' right in the heat of the day, too."

"But will you agree to take us? We're in no hurry to be off, that I know of, excepting that we might get rather hungry."

"Never mind about something to eat," said the old fellow. "I've got grub enough for us all in my hamper yonder. Br'iled fish, duck, an' a little bread, an' a few oranges. S'pose we can make out, 'thout you're too oncommon powerful feeders. As for takin' ye over to Berkley's, s'pose I can do it, seein' yer in a fix. But the main thing with me about now is to know what in the world you'ns is a doin' away out here, a playin' round with these here bows and arrers!"

There was a smack of genuine curiosity in his voice and manner which I could not refrain from respecting. So, while we lounged in the shade, I took pains to relate to him many of my pleasantest adventures, "by field and flood," with the long-bow. He listened with the quick, sincere interest of a child, and by the time the tide had turned I had evidently won both his respect and admiration. When we had eaten his food, which proved very palatable, and, having struck a bargain with him, were on the point of embarking in his skiff, he suddenly proposed that, as it was a long pull to Berkley's, we should go to his cabin on a neighboring island, for the night, and proceed to Berkley's in the morning. As if by way of sauce to this suggestion, he said that we could take the estuary before mentioned in our way, and have an hour or two of grand sport shooting wildfowl. Nothing could have better pleased us. The proposition was quickly accepted, and five minutes later we were in his stanch boat sweeping at no mean speed down upon the wooded crescent that flanked the feeding place of the wild-fowl.

The old man, as he pulled us along with slow, steady strokes, told us that he was liv ing just the sort of life that pleased him. He was as happy as he desired to be. He had a little "place" over on the island yonder, a few orange-trees, a garden-spot, some bananas, some fig-trees, and a few other comforts suited to his mode of life. For the rest, he hunted and fished, and took the world easy. He didn't see any use of people rushing and racing after wealth, when contentment and ease were so much more preferable. How long had he been living here? Thirty years! Was at the point of death with consumption when he came-from Tennessee, I believe and now see how hale and strong he was for one of his years!

We drew on, and, passing round the sicklelike point of the crescent and through a narrow way between high walls of rushes, swept into a singular, pond-like place, where tufts of tall grass dotted the surface of the water, which was literally alive with fowl. I shared my thirty-four arrows equally with Will, and when every thing was ready, the sport began. The old man refused to fire a shot. It was good enough for him to watch our display of archery, and this was uncommonly sharp at times. In fact, we never did better work than on that evening. Some half-accidental wing-shots resulting from letting drive through a bunch of ducks as they rose from the water, particularly pleased our boatman, and when I clipped a red-head through a quartering

shot over fifty yards of water, he clapped his hands and most emphatically and profanely praised both my skill and my lemon-wood weapon, which latter was the first of the king I had ever tried, and proved to be a marvel of elasticity and power.

Part of the time I took my stand on a low tussock, keeping well hidden in the high grass, whence I had some beautiful shots at short distances, scoring a number of charming hits, but losing arrows so rapidly that presently, to my surprise, I had but seven left. After this, I took none but fair chances and shot with great care. My companions in the canoe kept drifting slowly around here and there, continually driving the birds to me, and if I had had a fresh sheaf of arrows, I could have killed scores. I was astonished to find them so tame. Quite often when I knocked one over, its companions would, instead of flying away, swim curiously round about the fluttering victim. This is one of the beauties of hunting with our weapon. When you shoot it makes no report. The short, dull sound of the bow's recoil can be heard but a little distance, and the sharp whisper of a well-sent arrow is not of a character to frighten game. When we left that estuary, it was yet literally moving with fowl, though we had killed a great number. If so many shots from a fowling-piece had been fired there, not a wing would have remained! The mere noise itself would have driven them away.

We had lost all our arrows when, at about an hour before sunset, we slipped out through the narrow channel and pulled away for the low-lying island, close in to the main-land, upon which our boatman lived. A steady pull of perhaps three-quarters of an hour, over a blue, peaceful sheet of sea, brought us into the mouth of a slender creek, cutting with a graceful curve into the heart of the island. This was our way. We looked beyond a point of marsh to our left, and saw the sun like a mighty ball of red-hot metal just touching the far limit of the glorified sea, and then we passed into the cool shade of trees, that made a charming twilight, and soon we ran alongside of a pretty sail-boat lying at anchor in the creek, putting to shore where a flight of wooden steps led up a little bluff.

The old man bustled out and helped us ashore with our game, after which he led the way up the steps to where a broad path curved into an inclosure whose fence was a hedge of magnificent old orange-trees.

"Here's my possessions," he said, and, bidding us follow him, he walked rapidly along the path, drawing us into an orchard of some six hundred orange - trees in full fruit, passing through which we came into a garden of bananas, hedged with dusky fig and lemon trees. Beyond this still, and fronting a stretch of open sea, stood a low, rambling house, of five or six rooms, built of round logs. Neatness and comfort everywhere. We were met at the door by a pleasant-looking old lady, our boatman's wife. A married son with his wife and three children dwelt here, too-a family of hermits, from whom we had more than royal welcome. The old man grew more interesting as we be

came more familiar with his peculiarities, and both he and his household seemed delighted to have us for guests. I took great pleasure in answering the multitude of questions asked by old and young, sitting up till far into the night describing places I had seen and adventures that had befallen me in my rambles. I can think of nothing more romantic than the situation and circumstances of this isolated home on a wild island of the semi-tropics. Evidently it was a place of perfect peace and contentment, where sickness was unknown, and where the good, or the bad effects of what are called refinement and culture had scarcely been heard of. Year after year they had lived there among their orange, lemon, and pomegranate trees, their bananas and figs, with no wants beyond the ready power of unaided Nature to supply, happy, healthy, and with nothing like real labor to do. I think they would have willingly set up the entire night listening, with all the sincerity of children, to such scraps of incident and adventure as I could call to mind and relate for their amusement. Such utter simplicity would be hard to imagine if one had not witnessed it.

That night we slept on dry, sweet beds of cured moss. As for me, my dreams were of an island home embowered in tropical fruit-trees, where I dwelt in the bosom of my family. Next morning we were taken out in the sail-boat, and had a charming voyage of two hours to Berkley's.

When we reached Berkley's, nothing would do our old friend and his son but to have Will and me take a fresh supply of arrows and go back with them for a week's sport. So urgent and so evidently hearty was this request, that we complied, and that very evening found us again at the quiet old home on the island. We tried to make up for such hospitality by loading the boat with a host of things we thought might be acceptable to the family, taken from the store we had established at Berkley's, among which were a set of delf. ware, some knives and forks, and a small box of plug-tobacco. I shall not give the name of this illiterate but honest and charmingly hospitable family, and my reason is easily understood. They are living there in that lonely home this day, and if their simple trustfulness and generosity and their exact place of residence were known to the host of tourists and rambling, “dead-head" bores that every winter flock to the South, their peaceful retreat would soon become, to those ignorant but gentle hermits, unendurable.

It is not the purpose of this paper to give a detailed account of the many delightful adventures that befell us during the eight days that we had our headquarters at "Hermit Home," as Will has ever since called the place. The old man and his son did little else but take us here and there from one hunting-ground to another, finding it a con

which, with a "bodkin point," I drove entirely through his head, passing in between the ear and the eye, and coming out on the other side just below the eye. This was the largest animal we have ever killed with the bow. His weight was about three hundred pounds, I should guess, though we had no means of ascertaining it. We gave the skin to the old man.

While on this hunt I got lost in a dense swamp, and thought for a while that I should never again see home and friends. Such a vile place as that swamp was I hope to be forever clear of. It was the paradise of snakes. I must have seen a thousand moccasins. They were everywhere-on logs, on little tussocks, swimming in the water, writhing together among the tangled roots of the trees, drying themselves on the cypress knees, sliding and squirming about my feet, lapping their red, forked tongues, and leering at me from every conceivable place-you would not give credence to the whole truth if I should tell it. For four terrible hours I waded round and round in that venomous place, shouting myself hoarse, and blowing my whistle till my lips were sore. Finally I found a little ditchlike stream, and following this it led me out. Near this stream, and in the midst of the swamp, I came to an old, half-rotten boat, which had once been painted blue, and on its gunwale was still legible the inscription "U. S. A., 1832." No doubt this was a relic of some tragedy, but what were its circumstances, and who its actors, we can never know. The boat had been in its present position for many years, for considerable trees were growing in such a way as to show that they had sprung up since, and one end of the vessel, sunken deep in the swamp-muck, was literally crushed in the grasp of huge roots that had twined themselves around it.

I was overjoyed when I again found my friends. I felt as though I had been delivered from worse than a den of lions, and I imagined I had suffered all the horrors without the dementia of delirium tremens.

The following night we camped on the beach, having for our bed the soft, warm sand, and for our canopy a sky as blue and resplendent as that of Italy. About midnight, happening to become wakeful and restless, I put on my clothes (I had been sleeping wrapped in a light blanket), and, taking my bow and quiver, lighted my pipe, and strolled leisurely round a point of rush-marsh bordering a finger of shell-beach a half-mile south of

us.

The moon, nearly at its full, was high, and shining with a power unknown in latitudes farther north. I could distinguish objects at a distance almost as readily as by daylight, and the peculiar sheen of the water and the dimly-defined shadows of the rushes made beautiful lines of contrast athwart the mellow picture. The wind drew gently landward, sharp and fragrant, a real breath of the tropics. The tide made strong currents between the little islands off-shore, down which the porpoises ran, rising at regular intervals to cut the surface with their dingy swords, puffing like some powerful submarine engines. I stopped at a certain point, and gazed for a long time with a dreamful sort of interest on the charming sweep of sea and islands clothed

in the fantastic mantle of moon and star light. Sometimes a myriad of silvery mullet would leap up and fall back into the water like a shower of jewels, and anon a single skip-jack would shoot almost vertically into the air, his fins whizzing like the wings of a quail. The all-pervading murmur of the sea seemed more like silence than sound, and, though the combined light of the stars aud moon was wonderfully strong, still a soft, mysterious wavering of the outlines of things gave them an unreal, ghostly semblance. The air, though coming from over leagues and leagues of water, was peculiarly dry and pleasant to the lungs. Consumption could not be generated in that region; it is a very garden of health. While I stood there leaning on my bow, and enjoying the influence of the night, I became aware of certain small, shadowy forms stealthily but nimbly running out from the rushes and down the beach to the surf-line.

One, two, three, ten, twenty, more than a hundred of them marshaled within a distance of three or four hundred yards, some no farther away than a good bow-shot. My attention being now called to them, I could hear them quarreling in sharp tones the while they made a munching sound as if cracking shells with their teeth. They looked something larger than cats, and ran, or rather ambled, along, with their backs bowed up and their round tails held straight out behind. Now and then a half-dozen or more of them would rush together, apparently in great anger, fight furiously for a few seconds, then separate, each individual going his way none the worse from the contest. It was a weird masquerade, its effect heightened by the stillness of the night and the deceptive glamour of the moonshine, and, while I watched it with that half-sleepy interest characteristic of one who has got up at midnight from a restless slumber, suddenly a great bird swept by me, passing not more than twenty feet from my head. It sped like a ray of darkness, making not the slightest noise with its wings, and struck one of the small animals like a bolt. A sharp ery of anger and pain, and then a general stampede of the masqueraders as they rushed into the marsh-grass in the direction of a denselytimbered swamp, leaving the beach clear with the exception of the bird and its victim, now struggling in a silent, ominous way. Evi dently it was a matter of life and death with the contending parties-a close, hard wrestle for the mastery. I strung my bow as quickly as I could, then, running forward a few paces nearer, I drew and let drive with as good aim as I could. The arrow left the string with a clear, whirring sound, and I heard it strike with a dull" thud" as the huge bird tumbled over and began a loud flapping of its wings. I hurried to the spot, and found the largest owl I ever saw, pierced through by the arrow, and near by lay a raccoon dying from wounds the bird had given it. I had frequently before seen owls and hawks strike smaller animals, but this was something rare. The raccoon was a very large one. Possibly my ar row may have helped to kill it, but I think it did not. I took my bird to camp, and, refreshed by my curious adventure, lay down and slept till almost sunrise.