The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1881-06-04

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scapegoat in everyone of those drunken
fits of his, which required daily, and her
body bore marks of brutal kicks he had
given her when she was a little thing,
with limbs still tender and weak. But
now she had grown up to be a tall,
strong girl, with a tanned face and q
determined look, so that Peter was afraid
of her. He used to hide his money
from her, as bad boy does from his
mother, and if she wanted anything for
household expenses she had to search
his pockets when he was dead drunk.
However, more than thirty pounds out
of his fifty-two year used to melt in
drink, and Margaret had to exc out a
subsistence for himself and her by max
ing nets and shrimping. Sometimes
Lady Blanche used to give her q SOW
ereign, and this, too, helped the house.
hold along.
Margaret had wild, logged sort of
attractiveness in her appearance. She
never wore shoes or stockings, and her
black hair fell down her back in one
thickly plated tress. A red handker-
chief formed her head-covering and was
tied under her chin; her rough, brown
arms were always bare to the elbow.
Harold Trecorpe had cast his eyes upon
her from the time when she was seven
teen, but she hated him. The first time
hetried some rough piece of gallantry on
her she caught up the stump of broken
oar to protect herself and merely glared
at him, without saying a word. On an
other occasion, when he came behind
her unawares and took her by the chin.
she lifted heavy fishing net, all bronzed
with age and salt, and dashed it in his
face with such violence that he was
knocked down on the single.
course yo', wench!" he swore, as he
picked himself up. Yo' wouldn't have
done that to Mark Brathwaite; but let
him look to hisself if he crosses me-"
eff yo' lay finger or Mark Brath-
waite yo'll have to look to yosself," an
swered Margaret, contemptuously; and
Harold contented himself with scowling
at her from that time.
Mark Brathwaite was Margaret's Sec
ond lover-a fair-haired boy, about her
own age, whom she had saved from
drowning one windy day, when he had
been dashed out of his fishing boat by
flap of loosened sail, which had hit
him on the head and stunned him. Mar
garet had swan couple of furlongs in
tumbling sea to effect the rescue, and
Mark Brathwaite had loved her from
the moment when he opened his eyes
and found her bending over him and
breathing life into his body vigorously
from her own lungs. Margaret, how
ever, treated him like younger broth
er. He was the only human being who
could draw smile from her, but he was
not the man to teach her what love was,
though he tried hard and made himself
pretty wretched in the attempt.
Sometimes Peter Pencorrow's daugh-
ter, sitting outside her fathers house on
fine afternoons to make nets, would drop
her hands into her lap and look out with
a dull, wistful expression over the sea,
so broad, blue and mysterious Her
finely shaped head might have been
storehouse of knowledge and great
thoughts, but it was empty. She could
neither read nor write; she knew moth
ing of the world except in its most sordid
aspects of dire poverty, drunkenness and
brutality. She had never set foot in a
church, and had no idea of God save
that she had heard and believed that
there was something above those skies
which were now so golden with sunlight,
now so black with thunder. Occasion
ally such natural impulses of good as
were in the girls heart would well up in
short scraps of advice which she gave to
Mark Brathwaite: "Mark, yo'l not
get drunk like father. There's no good
in drink" or. "Mark, if were mon,
I'd learn summit and become a schol-
ard.n
This is what Margaret Pencorrow was
at eighteen, and on the night alluded to
in the first line of this story, when her
worthless father stood, drunk as usual,
on his watch, and unheedful of the
storm that was gathering.
Il
The storm broke presently with
frightful fury. Long streaks of light
ming rent the skies, and the waves were
dashed uponthe shore with roaring loud
as thunder. In despite of the deluge of
rain the crew of the lifeboat came to the
shed to get all in readiness, and great
many other fishermen and their wives
trooped out of the cottages; but this was
only because sleep on such night was
impossible. Most of the eyes that looked
seaward with expectant chances were
rather hoping for a profitable wreck
than eager for chance to save life.
Margaret stood in the shed with Mark
Brathwaite beside her, Harold Trecorpe
being on the other side of the boat
The occasional glow of the pipe he was
smoking lit up his rugged face and
made it seem devilish as he cursed the
ill-luck that had fallen upon Polloot,
and expressed his conviction that the
life-boat had switched - the place, driv-
ing wrecks off it. "Dong vol" cried
he, striking his fist on the boats side.
"Yo've done us harm from the day yo
COON here 70 hev'."
Suddenly there was cry from every
one under the shed: "a light! a blue
light! Look, there's anotherln
Far off in the offing there was ship
in distress sending up blue lights. They
rose swift and pale, then burst into a
bright CLEAN and vanished. Harold
Trecorpe uttered shout of exultation.
cts a big ship" cried he. "Here,
gle us the blue rockets, wench."
"What for the blue rocketsP" asked
Margaret, who was standing near box