THE CAPTAIN'S SACRIFICE. TH HERE are heroic souls who snatch their hard living from the perilous toils of our Northern lakes. Rough and rude, perhaps, but not the less are they heroes. George Manly was such a man. He had begun life as the son of a lake skipper, working his way by manly independence and straightforward honesty, until, at twenty-seven, he was master of his own schooner, and had placed his old mother above want. His father died a year before he was ranked among the owners of lake eraft; blessing the son who had smoothed his way into the dark valley. Laboring for the sake of his parents, the young sailor had but little time to give to other matters or to think of his own pleasure. He had his dreams (what young man has not?) of a home of his own, and a loving woman to fill and make it bright. But he had closed his eyes to the thought until, at twenty-six, men called him a cynic because he avoided women. He was no cynic when the cry of the needy was heard, no cynic when those in distress called on him for aid. He was hurrying home one night through the darkened streets of the city, having just entered port from Chicago with a cargo of grain. It was a bitter night, and the cold rain drove in his face and chilled him to the bone. He wrapped his water-proof coat about him and laughed at the storm. Suddenly he heard a cry, and, turning, saw a woman sink fainting to the pavement. It was an old woman, in the dress of the poorer class, carrying a bundle. He lifted her and carried her into a drug store, where she was revived, while he stood by waiting until she could speak. "Where do you live?" he asked, kindly. "I was going to 150 Mount Street," she gasped, "to Captain Archer's. Let me go, good people. The captain is sick and needs me." "You can not walk." "I will," replied the stout old creature. "He needs me, and I was his nurse." braids from her high forehead, and her eyes shone with a happy light. A plain wrapper of some dark material was confined at the waist by a girdle clasped by a golden buckle, and he caught a glimpse of a little foot peeping out beneath. Seeing the startled look on her face, he hastened to explain. "You must not be frightened, miss," he said. "This old lady was taken ill in the street, and I happened to be near, so I brought her here, as she said she must come to 150 Mount Street." "You are very kind," replied the girl, in her sweet low voice. "My father was unwell, and sent for his old nurse, but he did not think she would come out upon such a night as this. Are you better now, aunty ?” "She calls me aunty, the darlin'," said the old lady, "though I'm no more kin to her than you, blessin's on your handsome face! It's few young men would take the trouble for an old dame like me." "The gentleman must be very wet,” said the girl. "Shall I not show you a room where you can have a fire? It will be a pleasure to me." "Thank you, miss," said the young man, bashfully, turning his wet cap in his hands. "But I've an old mother at home that will be anxious about me, as I'm a sailor, and she knows I passed the Welland, and will expect me." "But you must leave your name, Sir. My father is a sailor too, and will want to thank you." "No need of that, miss. I only did as any one with the heart of a man would have done. But he knows me well enough-Captain George Manly, of the schooner Flying Arrow." "Indeed!" she said, with a bright smile. "I have heard him speak of you often, and after what I have seen to-night, I can well believe all his praise of you.” Poor George blushed to the very roots of his hair, and plunged into the cab, ordering the driver, in sailor fashion, to "heave ahead," and was driven rapidly home. Next day, while he was on the schooner, a boy "I'll get a cab and take her up," said came down with a note from Captain ArchManly. "Make her wait." er, asking him to come up; and he was only So they retained her while he hurried out too glad to avail himself of the invitation, to get a cab, and when it came they drove though he would not acknowledge that he through the night and storm to 150 Mount wished to get another glimpse of Myra ArchStreet, and Manly ran up the steps, half car-er's beautiful face. He went in the evening, rying the old lady, who was still weak. His ring at the bell was answered, not by a servant, but by a young lady, who held a lamp aloft to see who were at the door. As she stood there, with a flood of yellow light falling about her, the young man thought he had never seen any thing so beautiful, and, like Prince Geraint, when he saw Enid at her father's ruined home, he felt that this was "The one maid for him." and Captain Archer, somewhat recovered from his indisposition, received him with the bluff welcome which only sailors can give, and made him feel at home at once. Then Myra came in, radiant in beauty, and played melodies, mournful and gay, with a feeling and expression which the young sailor had never dreamed of. He sat in a perfect maze, watching her white fingers threading in and out among the keys of the piano-forte, and Her fair hair was banded back in great evoking sweet music from the depths of tho old instrument. He would have sat there for hours watching her and listening to the music, but Captain Archer would not have it. He liked to talk. "He did it," said Myra, with a glowing face. "He must not deny it, for I won't believe him." He passed a pleasant evening, and after "Stop clawing that piano, Myra," he said, that found it very convenient to drop into laughing. "What do you mean? When the captain's house during the winter evenmy young friend Manly comes to see me, doings to play a game of chess with him. And you think I do not want to hear him talk? There, get a chair on this side of the fire. I'm glad you got in just as you did last night, George, for, late in the fall as it is, the coast is dangerous. Did you hear of any wrecks ?" "Ay, indeed; the upper lake coast is lined with them. Thunder Bay is full of them, and I saw a bark ashore off Nine-mile Point, but her crew had left her. The Bermuda was in Port Dalhousie when I left, with a broken foremast. She will be down to-morrow, I reckon." "It is a terrible life you live," said Myra, softly. She was sitting on a low stool, with her head upon her father's knee. "I used to fall asleep nights, and when the wind rose, I would be awake in a moment, thinking of dear papa." "She's tender-hearted, is my little girl," said the captain, laying a caressing hand upon her head" mighty tender-hearted, to be sure. I'm going to tell you a story about a man that sails these lakes; not an old man, yet in experience he is as old as the grayest among us. He used to sail a little sloop out of this port, and went a matter of forty miles up the coast for any load he could get. It wasn't much of a boat, you understand. He had two men besides himself, and one of them was in the cabin sick with the ague." "Captain!” said George, faintly. "Well, what is it? Don't cross my hawse in that manner, you young lubber. Let me tell the story." "I wish you wouldn't," said George. "Nonsense. You can see how short-handed this young un was, with only one man to manage a pretty heavy sheet, for some one had to steer; and there came up one of the biggest blows we had that year—a squall, I ought to have said. When it struck her she had every thing reefed snug, so it did no harm to the sloop, but it washed the sailor before the mast overboard. What do you think he did, this young captain? Did he leave that struggling man to his fate, and sail on before the wind? Not a bit of it. He threw her up into the wind, fastened the tiller, and ran down to bring the sick man up in his arms, and brought him on deck, propped him up against the helm, and got out a little dingy the sloop carried-not much bigger than a Panama hat-and went after that man. What do you think of that young tarry-jacket, el What are you blushing at, George Manly? You can't bear to hear good deeds spoken of, can you?" when the captain was not at home-and it was astonishing how often that happened he would stay to sing duets with Myra. George had a magnificent voice, and they sang well together. The winter wore away, and George had fitted out the Flying Arrow for her upward trip, when Captain Archer came down to the boat. "You don't go out to-night, George?" he said. "I think so. The wind turns at midnight, and I think I must take advantage of it." "Then you will have plenty of time. Where have you been the last two weeks? Myra had something to tell you. I must do it myself. My little girl is going to be married to-night." George turned quickly away, and looked steadily across the harbor for a moment before he could trust himself to speak. "Isn't it rather sudden?" "Well, yes. I'll tell you about it. You sec, he lives in Toronto, Gale Merrick does, and it was there my little girl met him. They have been engaged over a year. I wonder she never told you, for she always said, if she could trust any one on earth, it would be George Manly." "I'm glad she likes me," said George, in a cold, dry tone. "I wish her every joy that can come to woman. She'll be a true wife to him, and she'll deserve all the love that any man could give her." "Why, you've got to come yourself, George. Do you think Myra would be married and you not there? Why, there isn't a man on earth she honors more than you, and I believe if she hadn't met Gale, and been promised to him before she saw you, she would have given her heart to you.” "No," said George, sadly. "No such luck. I—I don't think I can come, captain. Say I wish them happy, but I can't get away. I would if I could." "I don't believe she will take no for an answer, then," said the captain. "She'll send the carriage down for you, sure." And so she did. But George had disappeared, and none of the sailors seemed to know where he had gone. The carriage came twice, but each time he was away. Where was he? Crouched down in a secluded corner of the lumber-yard near at hand, fighting the battle with his true, honest heart. "I could have loved her dearly," he said. "Life seems ended. And she asked me to come and see her marriage, the innocent child! She never knew I loved her, never knew how my heart was crying out to her night and day. Oh, Myra! Myra!" He was so near the schooner that he heard the carriage come and go twice, and was glad it had not found him. Then his mood changed, and he felt that he must see her before she chang a her maiden name, or die. He went to the schooner, threw off the blouse which he wore over his clothing, and went up. A servant met him in the hall. "He's come! he's come!" she cried. "Oh, Mr. George, this will so please Miss Myra! She was almost crying because you would not come to see her married, and the carriage has just gone for you again." "I suppose I could not see her before before she is married?" faltered George. “I'll ask,” said the girl. "I know she'll come. Go into the parlor and I'll send her down." Soon there was a rustle of muslin, and Myra floated into the room, so full of beauty and light that poor George stood, like one transfixed, gazing at her. Radiant! That was a tame word to describe such beauty as hers in her bridal dress. She gave him both hands in the hearty manner which had always characterized her treatment of him, and he took them in a clasp which made her start. "You dear, good George!" she said. "So you thought better of it and came, after all. I would never have forgiven you if you had staid away-never, never." "I am glad I came," he said, softly. "It is better so-better, far better. I wish I He must knew the man you are to marry. be a good man to be worthy of you." "How highly you think of me, George!" she said. "I do not deserve it at your hands; but I would rather have you think well of me than any man-except Gale-in the wide world. There, you must let me go, for the bride-maids are calling me, and I am not quite ready. How do I look ?" He gave her such a look that she needed no other answer, but fled with glowing cheeks up the stairs. An hour after, George Manly stood in the shadow of the windowcurtain, and saw her standing with her lover, and heard the solemn words fall from the lips of the divine: "And whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder." Two years passed, and the captain of the Flying Arrow was captain of a propeller which brought passengers and merchandise Those who knew from the upper lakes. him best were aware that he was pressed down by some great sorrow, but no one had known his grief except his mother. He had told her his story, and she fell upon his neck and wept for him, "as one whom his mother had comforted." But she was now at rest. The propeller was passing out of the last lock in the Welland, and George was for 125 ward, watching her carefully, when passen- 66 George followed her mechanically into the ladies' cabin. A nurse sat upon a sofa near the upper end of the cabin, holding in her arms a baby-Myra's child. The young mother was down upon her knees beside it, pressing her lips to the sweet mouth of the child, which crowed and stretched out its little hands to her. "Why don't you speak to him, George?" she said, pouting. "You don't hardly even look at him, you wicked creature, and you don't know what his name is." "How could I know?" said George. "I hope he has a good name." "He has the name of a good man and a brave one," she answered. "Your father's ?" Now what do "George Gale Merrick. you think of it? I would have it, George, because I want, when my little child is old enough to understand what I mean, to point him out a model, and I want no better one than I have found." The little fellow was stretching out his hands to George, who could not resist the His voice broke as he child's pleading gesture, and took the little fellow in his arms. tried to speak. "You don't know how I feel it," he said, "that you should name your little child I am not likely to have one by after me. my own fireside, and it will be something to remember with pleasure in my lonely voyages that somewhere on the earth there lives a child who bears my name." "George," said Myra, inexpressibly touched by the melancholy cadence of his voice, "why do you live a lonely life? There are dozens of girls I know who would be proud to be your wife." without a moment's warning, the squall struck them on the beam. Many a sailing craft went down in that fierce gust, and even the steamer felt it. As she heeled to leeward, and every thing upon the windward side went thundering across the deck, a wail of despair was hesd among the passengers. But, in obedience to the captain's "It can never be," he said, gently. And order, the steamer's course was changed so the solemn waves seemed to take up and that its bow pointed "into the wind's eye," sound the melancholy words. Myra had while the fierce squall roared about her, and never dreamed of the true solution of George a watery deluge swept across her decks. Manly's sorrow. In their intercourse she George Manly, drenched by the icy flood, had looked at him as one immeasurably but bold and confident, kept his station beabove her, to whom her childish chatter|hind the wheel-house, holding in one hand was simply amusing. But that he should love her! she would have laughed at the idea. Yet as she saw George standing there, gazing upon the sweet face of the child, an indefinable suggestion crossed her mind as to the cause of his gloom. Through the day he came to the cabin often; and once when Myra missed the child, the nurse told her that "the captin" had taken it on deck. She went out to look for him, and found him seated in the shadow of the cabin, the arms of the boy about his neck, and its lit-pocketed the key, in spite of their remontle face pressed against his bearded cheek. the speaking tube, and in the other a trumpet, for in the roar of the elements no human voice could have any power. A confused shout arose as a crowd of drenched passengers came rushing forward. "Silence there, fore and aft!" cried the young sailor. "Watkins, take those people aft. What do they mean by this conduct when we are busy?" The mate drove his confused flock before him to the after-cabin, locked them in, and strances. He knew that they were safe if in that dark night they did not meet some other craft upward bound. The captain kept his lights up, the pyramid of colored lamps which tells of the coming of a steam "I knew you had stolen him," said Myra. But the boy clung to his new protector, and crowed defiance to his mother. She drew a deck chair near the rail, looking out across the tranquil water. They were just steam-er, and anxiously watched for those other ing past Charlotte, and the long line of green coast lay bright before their eyes. George, looking at the northern sky, gave a sudden start, and a new trouble came into his face. He did not like the appearance of the sky. He had seen it look like that before terrific squalls, and he went away to prepare for danger. The sun set in a blazing sky, but it was the wrong kind of red—a lurid, fiery glare. The sailors shook their heads and looked significantly at each other. Myra, surprised by these strange glances, asked, "What is the matter, George?" "A capful of wind yonder, perhaps nothing to speak of. You go into your cabin and never mind it. If there is any real danger, I will be the first one to tell you, never fear. Take her into the cabin, Gale, and don't mind the chatter of my men. If the lubbers had never sailed the lake, I wouldn't blame them so much. But I don't like this. Go into the cabin." The wind began to rise in fitful gusts, and the steamer was rushing through the water at her best speed, the foam piling itself in white masses about her cut-water. Below, her great heart throbbed and beat, while the firemen, smoke-begrimed and perspiring, piled wood in the furnace, and the engineer obeyed the order which came through the speaking tube to put on speed. Night came on, and the waves seemed to go down for a moment, and it was almost a calm, and then, lights which he must avoid. Sea after sea deluged them, and swept the decks clean of every thing not secure; but the sturdy sailors laughed at them. George called the first mate to his place, gave him the trumpet, and went into his cabin for a night-glass, when he was aware that some one was sitting on a stool in the forward cabin looking out at the window, and trying in vain to pierce the thick darkness beyond. "Who is this?" he said. "It is I, George," said the musical voice he had so loved to hear. "I could not stay in the cabin among that crowd of frightened people. Let me stay here." "If you like it better," he answered. "Where is the child, and Gale ?" "They are in the cabin. Gale is not afraid, and is trying to calm those poor frightened souls. He is a brave man, George." “I know it,” said George, slowly. “I—” Crash! Every thing seemed to reel as if a lightning stroke had touched the steamer and shivered her at once. A wild, piercing cry, heard above the roar and rush of the tempest, a terrible, agonizing scream from half a hundred throats, told what had happened. Some unfortunate craft at the mercy of the waves, without lights, or unable to raise them, had met the steamer in full career. There can be no conception of the terrible force of such a meeting. The crashing timbers, the shrieks of brave men, rose above the turmoil of nature. Then the ly. "And before you go I want you to take steamer reeled on, staggering like a drunk- this letter. When you know that I am dead, en man, and the unfortunate craft was blot-give it to your wife. If I live, return it to ted out. George had caught Myra, and held me." her close until the first tumult had subsided, and he felt the steamer gliding on unobstructed, when he released her, and rushed out into the gloom and took command of the steamer again. For two hours they rushed on, and the storm subsided, when the mate came to him, and whispered, in a horrified voice, "We have sprung a leak!" For a single instant the two men looked at each other in horrified surprise, and then George sprang for his trumpet. "To the pumps!" he cried. "Work with a will, men." He thrust the sealed letter into the hand of the husband, and seizing him suddenly, forced him into the boat, and cast off the painter. The boat and steamer parted in the darkness, and George Manly remained upon the ill-fated craft, happy in the consciousness that he had heard her voice praying them to return and save him. He was glad they did not attempt it. The boat was loaded heavily already, and his weight would be too much. Climbing to the quarter-deck, he sat calmly down and awaited his fate. The last they saw of him, under the glare of the steamer's lamps, was his hand stretchThey worked as only men can who are ed out in a mute gesture of farewell. Livfighting for their lives. But, fast as they ing, no man ever saw his face again, and it labored, the water poured in faster than the was two days after when they found his pumps could draw it out. It gained, inch body upon the sands. When he was buried, by inch, and George hurried about, prepar- Myra's husband brought the package which ing the boats for the salvation of the pas- this brave man forced into his hand upon sengers. The storm had subsided as quick-that fearful night, and opened it. He had ly as it rose, but though they now rocked idly upon the waves, they felt that they were doomed. "Get out the boats!" cried the sailors. "Pumps can't save us. The steamer must go down." They made a rush for the boat on the starboard quarter, but George Manly stood before it, a revolver in his hand, and warned them sternly back: "I am captain of this boat yet, and my passengers shall be saved first, my crew next, myself last of all. But the man who lays a finger upon any of these boats, except I order it, is a dead man." They quailed before the determined captain, and when he called to certain ones to help lower away the boat, they quietly obeyed him. One by one the frightened passengers descended, until there was only room left for the four rowers and the mate who was to command the boat. "Away with you," said George. "You've a compass, Watkins?" "Ay, ay, Sir. God bless you, captain!" The boat pushed off, and the remaining one was lowered. It was larger than the one which had just left the steamer, but not large enough to hold all. George, with his own hand, placed Myra in the boat, and put the child in her arms. No one remained upon the steamer except Myra's husband and Manly. The sailors began to grumble. "Come along, cap. She is getting heavy. But both of you can't come in this boat; she won't stand it." "I know it," said George, calmly. "I am not going with you. Gale Merrick, get into that boat. The steamer will not be afloat in fifteen minutes." "I will not go," said Gale. "You must," replied George, almost fierce written hastily in pencil, "MYBA,-Farewell until the coming of a brighter GEORGE." morning. Inclosed was a will, bequeathing all his property to Myra. He had made this will long ago, and carried it with him, directed to her. He had written in pencil beneath it, "Teach the little child to think kindly of the man whose name he bears." Myra never forgot that prayer, and in the after-days her son revered the memory of no man more than that of the young hero who died in the darkness that other lives might be saved. MUSCADINES. SOBER September, robed in gray and dun, Behind the foliaged screen, After his tender lips Through shine and shade, To watch the rainless cloudlets, white and soft, Sail o'er the placid ocean of the sky. Far off, far off, within the shrouded heart |