not before read in his pale meditative face some such

H

sad history as Mr. H—— had confided to me. I formed the resolution of speaking to him, though with what purpose was not very clear to my mind.

One May morning we met at the intersection of two paths. He courteously halted to allow me the precedence.

"Mr. Wentworth," I began, “I—”

He interrupted me. "My name, sir," he said, in an off-hand manner, "is Jones."

"Jo-Jo-Jones!" I gasped.

"Not Jo Jones," he returned coldly, "Frederick." Mr. Jones, or whatever his name is, will never know, unless he reads these pages, why a man accosted him one morning, as "Mr. Wentworth," and then abruptly rushed down the nearest path, and disappeared in the crowd.

The fact is, I had been duped by Mr. H——. Mr. H occasionally contributes a story to the magazines. He had actually tried the effect of one of his

romances on me!

My hero, as I subsequently learned, is no hero at all, but a commonplace young man who has some connection with the building of that pretty granite bridge which will shortly span the crooked little lake in the Public Garden.

When I think of the cool ingenuity and readiness with which Mr. H built up his airy fabric on my credulity, I am half inclined to laugh; though I feel not slightly irritated at having been the unresisting victim of his Black Art.

IPSWICH BAR

BY ESTHER AND BRAINARD BATES

THE mist lay still on Heartbreak Hill,

The sea was cold below,

The waves rolled up and, one by one,
Broke heavily and slow;

And through the clouds the gray gulls fled,
The gannets whistled past,
Across the dunes the wailing loons
Hid from the rising blast.

The moaning wind, that all day long
Had haunted marsh and lea,

Went mad by night, and, beating round,

Fled shrieking out to sea.

The crested waves turned gray to white,
That tossed the drifting spar,

But far more bright the yellow light
That gleamed on Ipswich Bar.

Old Harry Main, wild Harry Main,
Upon the shifting sand

Had built a flaming beacon-light
To lure the ships to land.

"The storm breaks out and far to-night,

They seek a port to bide;

God rest ye, sirs, on Ipswich Bar
Your ships shall surely ride.

"They see my fires, my dancing fires,
They lay their courses down,
And ill betide the mariners

That make for Ipswich town!

"For mine the wreck, and mine the gold,
With none to lay the blame, -
So hold ye down to-night, good sirs,
And I will feed the flame!"

Oh, dark the night and wild the gale!
The skipper hither turned

To where, afar, on Ipswich Bar,

The treacherous beacon burned;

With singing shrouds and snapping sheets
The vessel swiftly bore

And headed for the guiding lights

Which shone along the shore.

The shoaling waters told no tale,
The tempest made no sign,
Till full before her plunging bows
Flashed out a whitened line;

She struck, she heeled, the parting stays

Went by with mast and spar,

And then the wave and rain beat out

The light on Ipswich Bar.

Gray dawn beneath the dying storm;
A figure gaunt and thin

Went splashing through the tangled sedge
To drag the treasure in;

For when the darkness broke away,

The lances of the moon

Had shown him where lay, bow in air,
A wrecking picaroon.

What matter if the open day

Bore witness to his shame?

"T was his the wreck and his the gold, And none had seen to blame.

He did not know the eyes of men
Were watching from afar,

As Harry Main went back and forth
The length of Ipswich Bar.

They told the Ipswich fisher-folk,

Who, all aghast and grim,

Came running down through Pudding Lane

In maddened search for him;

With chains about his guilty neck
They left him to the wave
The lapping tide rose eagerly
To hide the wrecker's grave.

And now, when sudden storms strike down
With hoarse and threatening tones,
Old Harry Main must rise again
And gird his sea-wracked bones

To coil a cable made of sand
Which ever breaks in twain,

While echoing through the salted marsh
Is heard his clanking chain.

When rock and shoal are white with foam,

The watchers on the sands

Can see his ghostly form rise up
And wring his fettered hands.

And out at sea his cries are heard

Above the storm, and far,

Where, cold and still, old Heartbreak Hill

Looks down on Ipswich Bar.