the young gentleman who was deputed to solve the mystery stayed open-mouthed in his seat.  The old woman hobbled to the door, and found a man lying on his face.  The poor fellow was a Portuguese sailor.  He had swum through the surf from a vessel that was hard-and-fast on the rocks below the house, and it was his last exhausted effort that startled the assembly of youths.  Mary told this story (with supernatural additions) until her death.

There are captains, mates, and sailor-men in all parts of the world who remember the old story-teller, for it is pretty certain that her influence had a good deal to do with sending many a tall fellow away southward to the great seaports in quest of adventures.  Her cottage is still standing, but a sulky hind reigns there, and the unique collection of pipes is dispersed.

A VOLUNTEER LIFE-BRIGADE.

There is generally very heavy weather in winter time on the north-east coast.  From North Sunderland the Farne Islands can hardly be seen, for the tumultuous waves in the narrow channels throw up clouds of spray.  At the mouth of the Tyne the sea runs strongly, and the great piers have to meet endless charges of green masses that break on the stone-work and pour along the footway in foaming streams.  As the evening comes, knots of men stroll toward the pier.  They are all clothed in thick guernseys and business-like helmets, and on their breasts they have the letters V.L.B.  They are the Volunteer Life Brigade.  The brigade is very mixed in composition.  There are carpenters, bankers, pilots, clerks, lawyers, tradesmen of all grades, and working men of all trades.  At the middle of the pier stands a strong wooden house, in which there is one great room where the watchmen sit, and also numerous small boxes with berths where rescued men are laid.  Hot-water bottles are constantly ready, and a mysterious array of restoratives rest handy on a side-table.

Since the great piers were run out to sea the water in the Tyne has been much deepened; but this advantage has its drawback in the fact that the sea pours through the deepened channel like the swirl of a millrace.  As soon as the tiers of shipping begin to creak and moan with the lurching swell the people know that there may be bad work.  The brigadesmen sit chatting in their warm shed.  They know that they must go to work in the morning; they know that they may be drenched and aching in every limb before the dawn whitens:  yet they take everything as it comes with cheerful stoicism.  During the winter of 1880 scores of men travelled to business at Newcastle for a week at a stretch without having lain once in bed.  They went out when their services were required; stood to their ropes, and were hustled about by the sea:  they brought crew after crew ashore, and in the mornings they fared without grumbling to office or warehouse or shop.  Snatches of sleep on the hard benches made their only rest, yet they stood it out.