THE SMUGGLER. 107 



welcome. There was but one candle lighted on the table, for 

 the dwellers in the place were poor; but the room was small, 

 and that one was quite sufficient to show the white walls and 

 the neat shelves covered with crockery, and with one or two 

 small prints in black frames. Besides, there was the fire- 

 place, with a bright and cheerful, but not large fire; for 

 though, in the month of September, English nights are fre- 

 quently cold and sometimes frosty, the weather had been as 

 yet tolerably mild. Nevertheless, the log of fir at the top 

 blazed high, and crackled amidst the white and red embers 

 below, and the flickering flame, as it rose and fell, caused the 

 shadows to fall more vaguely or distinctly upon the walls, with 

 a fanciful uncertainty of outline, that had something cheerful, 

 yet mysterious in it. 



The widow was bending over the fire, with her face turned 

 away, and her figure in the shadow. The daughter was 

 busily working with her needle, but her eyes were soon raised, 

 and they were very beautiful eyes, as Harding entered. A 

 smile, too, was upon her lips ; and though even tears may be 

 lovely, and a sad look awaken deep and tender emotions, yet 

 the smile of affection on a face we love is the brightest aspect 

 of that bright thing the human countenance. It is what the 

 sunshine is to the landscape, which may be fair in the rain or 

 sublime in the storm, but can never harmonize so fully with 

 the innate longing for happiness which is in the breast of every 

 one, as when lighted up with the rays that call all its excel- 

 lence and all its powers into life and being. 



Harding sat down beside the girl, and took her hand in his, 

 saying, "Well, Kate, this day three weeks, then, remember?" 



" My mother says so," answered the girl, with a cheek 

 somewhat glowing; "and then, you know, John, you are to 

 give it up altogether. No more danger; no more secrets?" 



" Oh! as for danger," answered Harding, laughing, "I did 

 not say that, love. I don't know what life would be worth 

 without danger. Every man is in danger all day long ; and 

 I suppose that we are only given life just to feel the pleasure 

 of it by the chance of losing it. But no dangers but the 

 common ones, Kate. I'll give up the trade, as you have 

 made me promise; and I shall have enough by that time to 

 buy out the whole vessel in which I've got shares, and what 

 between that and the boats, we shall do very well, You put 



