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 writing so busily, and every instant turning over the leaves of a large book?  It is George.  Emma has gone with her papa and mamma to the Colosseum; but George was obliged to remain a prisoner at home, having been much inconvenienced by a severe cold.  He is now working diligently to create a surprise for his sister on her return; and anxiety to please her gives such impetus to his exertions, that he accomplishes more than he even ventured to anticipate.

Grandy perseveres in her knitting:  she silently commends her darling for his thoughtful affection, and occasionally pauses to cast a glance of deep earnest love, not unmixed with a degree of pride, on the beaming countenance of her favorite grandchild.