on these rocks was the work of a gentleman named
Winstanley; it stood four years, when he was so confident of its
stability that he determined to encounter a storm in the building
himself. He paid for his temerity with his life, and found how vain
it was to build houses of brick and stone to resist the mighty
waters, which can only be controlled by the power of the most high
God. Three years afterwards another Lighthouse was built which
sustained the attacks of the sea for the space of forty-six years,
but, strangely enough, was destroyed by fire in August, 1755. The
fire broke out in the lantern, and burning downwards, drove the men,
who in vain attempted to extinguish it, from chamber to chamber;
until at last, to avoid the falling of the timber, and the red hot
bolts, they took refuge in a cave on the east side of the rock,
where they were found at low water in a state little short of
stupefaction, and conveyed to Plymouth. The present Lighthouse was
erected by Mr. Smeaton on an improved plan: no expense was spared to
render it durable and ornamental; the last stone was placed on the
25th of August, 1759, and the first night the light was exhibited a
very great storm happened, which actually shook the building; but it
stood,--and it still stands,--a glorious monument of human
enterprise, perseverance, and skill."

GRANDY. "We have done so much to-night, and have been so much
interested, that I may venture to offer an apology for not having
prepared _my_ portion. It is now time for supper; and I think you
have heard as much to-night as you can well remember. Shall I ring
the bell, my dear?" Mrs. Wilton replied in the affirmative, and John
quickly appeared with the tray. Some nice baked apples soon smoked
on the table, with cakes of Grandy's own making, intended expressly
for the children, and which gave universal satisfaction. The meeting
dispersed about half-past ten, and all felt the wiser for their
evening's amusement.

CHAPTER III.

There lives and works
A soul in all things,--and that soul is God!

For a few minutes we will quit the "Research," and take a peep into
Mr. Wilton's drawing-room. There is a bright, blazing fire; the
crimson curtains are closely drawn; pussy is curled up in a circle
on the soft rug; and Grandy, with her perpetual knitting, is still
in the old leather chair.

"But where are all the others?" I fancy I hear my readers'
inquiries. Look again. Who sits at the table writin