move would prevent his lighting the lamps at the usual hour. A crowd of possibilities, each more terrible than the one before, passed through her mind, in the few moments that she stood by the window, motionless and despairing. Then came the remembrance of Murphy's words, "I have left the boat down there at the slip," and in less than five minutes from the time she first unbarred the shutter, she was speeding down the steep path by the cliff, leaving the old man quietly asleep, unconscious of danger to either wife or son. On reaching the little landing-place, she looked in vain for the boat. It had evidently been cut from its moorings, for a piece of rope still remained, securely knotted into the iron ring to which the boat had been fastened. If she had had time to think, this fact would have added to her alarm; as it was, her only feeling was despair at the unexpected obstacle thrown in her way. At length she remembered having seen a small boat lying on the rocks at some distance round the cliff; she reached the spot with considerable difficulty, along paths by which at another time she would not have dreamed of venturing, even in broad daylight, and found to her great relief, that the boat was still there, the oars lying ready across the thwarts. She pushed it off easily enough, and stepping in, began to row towards the lighthouse Alice was a strong, active woman, and in her girlhood had been used to boats, but it was now many years since she had handled an oar, and for the first few minutes she felt as if no exertion on her part could conquer the distance between her and the lighthouse. After a time, however, her arms got used to their work, and she began to pull with long, steady strokes, concentrating her entire force of mind and body on her oars, and resolutely striving to keep her fear at bay, lest it should impair the strength or steadiness of eye or hand. At length she reached the lighthouse, and stepping out, proceeded to secure her boat; as she did so, she perceived that the lighthouse boat, the trim little Grace Darling, which Owen himself had repainted only the week before, was already there. Pushing open the half-closed door, she entered the lower room, used by the two men as kitchen and general sitting-room. It was dark, save for a single band of moonlight, which crossed the floor from one of the narrow windows, showing in its track, the table overturned as if in a struggle, and a long glittering knife lying on the ground. Sick with terror, Alice groped about, looking in vain for matches, and finding at every step fresh evidence of violence. At length she heard a groan, which seemed to come from under the winding iron staircase leading to the upper stories. Stooping down, she found the body of a man, lying in the corner between the staircase and the wall, as if he had crawled there to die. Half raising it in her arms, she dragged it into the moonlight, which showed it to be indeed Owen, deadly pale, and covered with blood from several fearful gashes in his head and neck. Tearing her apron into stripes, she tried to staunch the blood, and remembering that she had a moment before stumbled against a pitcher of water she brought it over and bathed his forehead. Presently he opened his eyes, making a gasping sign for water; she poured some down his throat, which seemed to revive him a little. "Mother," he said, "go away-he will-murder you-as he did me." At the same moment, Alice heard sounds as if some one were moving in the upper rooms, and thinking of nothing but the necessity for taking her boy away from this fearful place, she put forth her utmost strength, and raising him in her arms, staggered with him to the door, just as a heavy step was heard descending the staircase. She laid Owen down in the little boat in which she had herself come, and having first unfastened the rope which held the other boat, and sent it adrift, so as to cut off all danger of pursuit, she took up her oars, and began to row with all her might towards the shore. Next morning, when Murphy returned to Inchmore, he was, to his great surprise, assailed on all sides with questions as to the reason why the light had not shown the night before in its usual place, and on going to Alice's cottage, he found the old man in a state of considerable alarm at the disappearance of his wife. These circumstances, joined to the loss of his own boat, roused the man's fears, and he was soon on his way to the lighthouse, accompanied by a sub-inspector of police, and two armed men. On reaching it, they found unmistakable evidence of its having been the scene of a severe struggle. The table was overturned, the remains of supper being strewn around, while a long, sharp knife, which Owen was known to be in the habit of using as a bread-knife, lay in a pool of blood on the floor. Upstairs everything had been ransacked, although not in search of plunder, as a little bag of sovereigns-poor Owen's savings-was found untouched in an open drawer. Higher still, the same destructive hand had been at work, the complicated series of reflectors, and the clockwork which caused the lantern to revolve, being much injured. It seemed as if a maniac had been turned loose, in the trim, orderly lighthouse. But no human being, living or dead, was to be seen. The police officer had just come to the conclusion that the murderer had thrown the body of his victim into the sea, and had himself escaped, when one of the men found on a ledge of rock, as if thrown there by a swimmer about to plunge into the waves, a rough cloth jacket, which Murphy at once identified as being the one worn by Mat Sheehan the evening before. It was afterwards conjectured that, on finding the boat gone, and his means of escape cut off, he had jumped into the sea, trusting for safety to his powers of swimming, which were considerable. Whether he succeeded in reaching an outward-bound vessel, and so making his way to America, or whether he swam until exhausted, and then sank, was never known; most probably the latter. Certain it is that all efforts to trace him failed. The second morning after the night on which Murphy had left poor Owen at his post alive and well, some men who were returning from their night's fishing, saw a small boat apparently empty drifting about. On approaching, they found it to contain a woman with wild eyes and terror-stricken face, who sat in the bottom of the boat, supporting on her lap the figure of a young man, with livid features, closed eyes, and clothes soaked with blood. The oars were gone, and the little boat was entirely at the mercy of the wind and waves, but she did not appear to notice it, her whole attention being given to the young man. "He is asleep," she said, in answer to their inquiries; "he has been asleep a long time." When they raised him, and tried to pour spirits down his throat, they found that he was not asleep but dead. The medical evidence given at the inquest went to show, that poor Owen had been first stunned by a heavy blow, and afterwards stabbed. None of his wounds would in themselves have been fatal, so that he must have died from loss of blood. Murphy was of course examined, as was also Katie Sheehan. The latter appeared much sobered by the terrible consequences of her coquetry, and gave her evidence with many tears. She admitted that she had at one time given her cousin to understand that she would be his wife, and had allowed him to remain under that impression, even when the time had been fixed for her marriage with Owen. The morning of the murder, Mat had overheard some whispered confidences to another girl, about a wedding-gown, and had come to her in a fury to know what she meant. She had been afeared of him," she said, “and had humoured him even to the extent of letting him think that the gown in question was intended for her marriage with himself.” 66 Old Martin's words must have first shown him how he had been duped, and rage and despair having completely overmastered his always scanty amount of reason and self-control, he had snatched at the opportunity which was, as it were, flung into his hands by Murphy's absence, of wreaking his vengeance on his rival. The murdered man was laid in Inchmore churchyard by the side of the elder Owen, and Alice was for many months an inmate of the county lunatic asylum. In her ravings, she revealed much of the story of that dreadful night and day, and explained many things that had been before incomprehensible. It was supposed, that on discovering that it was but the dead body of her son which she had rescued, she abandoned her oars in despair, and allowed the boat to drift as the wind and waves listed. No one who realises the horror of the discovery, or the agony of the ensuing hours, will wonder at her reason having given way. She and her husband met with much kindness; application having been made in the proper quarter, a small pension was secured to them, and during the time that Alice was in the asylum, Martin was kindly cared for by friends and neighbours. Their cottage being of course wanted for poor Owen's successor, the little cabin on the cliff, then in a ruinous condition, was made habitable for them, and here it was that Alice returned, at the end of some months, to resume her patient, devoted care of her husband. She was always as I had seen her, quiet and subdued, attentive to the old man's comfort, but seemingly indifferent to all else. I only saw Alice M'Carthy once, as I left Inchmore soon after, but I never lost the interest which had been excited, first by her appearance, and afterwards by her sad story; and as I kept up a desultory correspondence with the old priest, I learned from time to time the remaining incidents of her life. After the death of her husband, which happened two or three years later, her mind became again unsettled, and she took to wandering about the country, obtaining shelter in the farmers' houses, and doing various little services in return. Father Power drew her pension regularly and paid it to her in small sums, but she always gave it away as fast as she received it, and depended on the kindness of others for her own support. She still kept the key of her little cabin, and sometimes returned to it, when she would spend the whole day, and it was believed the greater part of the night, sitting on the door-step, her eyes fixed on the lighthouse. She was quite harmless, and was much loved by the children for miles round, who were the usual recipients of her money, and to whom she would tell stories of what had happened long ago, Many hundred years ago," she used to say. She often in these stories curiously confused the two Owens, mixing up the events of her own childhood with those of her son's. 66 A few days since, I had a letter giving me the last chapter of this sad story. One stormy night, the lightkeeper on duty, who was sitting before the fire in the lower room of the lighthouse, heard a noise as of oars, and on opening the door found outside a small boat, its only occupant being a woman who was trying to fasten it to the iron ring in the wall. Much surprised, he drew the boat in, and on helping the woman into the room, he found that it was Alice, with wild, disordered hair, and spray-soaked clothes, who said that she had come to see her son Owen. The man, who knew her story, spoke gently to her, telling her that Owen was not there just then, and persuaded her to sit down and rest, promising to row her back in the morning. She objected to the delay, saying, "that she must go to Owen; he would be glad to see his mother;" but she was exhausted and numb with cold, and soon sank into a deep sleep, crouching by the fire. The man did not disturb her, but smoked quietly on, and when his mate came to relieve him, the two consulted together, and decided on leaving her there till morning, when they could row her over to Inchmore. Accordingly, when they had prepared breakfast next morning, one of them went over to waken her, that she might share it with them. She did not answer, and when the man, becoming impatient, removed her hands from before her face, they fell heavily at her sides-she was dead. Her words of the night before, "I am going to Owen," had been true ones. They rowed her over as they had promised, and took her to her cabin, whence she was removed to the little churchyard on the hill, and laid near father and brother, husband and son. With the exception of the old priest, there is no one living now who remembers her in her youth; and in a very few years her story will be forgotten at Inchmore. I have striven to record it faithfully, but unless I had the power of bringing before the minds of my readers the picture which I can call up in my own, of the noble-looking, patient woman, I could not hope to inspire them with even a small share of the interest which I felt in the story of Alice M'Carthy and the Lighthouse at Inchmore. AUTUMN SONGS. I. LOSE the door and drop the latch, Light the log and mend the thatch, Look no more to see the shadow Of the beech-tree on the meadow. Sit you by the hearth to-day; Come in, come in, for the swallow 's away! No more piping round the eaves, Drift and drop like hopes foregone; Come in, come in, for the swallow has flown! Misty woods look far from home, |