"Come," said he. He loved it maybe.

He seemed to wish that it would come towards him. But to come towards him would be to come upon him. And then he was lost. How avoid the crush? That was the question. All looked upon the scene, terrified.

Not a breast breathed freely, except, perhaps, that of the old man who alone was on the lower deck with the two combatants, a sinister witness.

He might himself be crushed by the piece. He stirred not.

Under them the blinded sea directed the combat.

At the moment when, accepting this dreadful handto-hand encounter, the gunner challenged the cannon, a chance rolling of the sea kept it immovable as if stupefied. "Come, then!" said the man. It seemed

to listen.

Suddenly it jumped towards him. The man escaped the shock.

The struggle began. Struggle unheard of. The fragile wrestling with the invulnerable. The monster of flesh attacking the brazen beast. On one side force, on the other a soul.

All this was passing in a shadow. It was like the indistinct vision of a prodigy.

one

A soul! a strange thing! one would have thought the cannon had one also, but a soul of hate and rage. This sightless thing seemed to have eyes. The monster appeared to watch the man. There was would have thought so, at least-cunning in this mass. It also chose its moment. It was a kind of gigantic insect of iron, having, or seeming to have, the will of a demon. At times this colossal grass

hopper would strike the low ceiling of the battery, then fall back on its four wheels like a tiger on its four claws, and commence again to dart upon the man. He, supple, agile, adroit, writhed like an adder in guarding against all these lightning-like movements. He avoided encounters, but the blows he shunned were received by the vessel, and continued to demolish it.

An end of broken chain had remained hanging to the carronade. One end of it was fastened to the carriage. The other, free, turned desperately around the cannon and exaggerated all its shocks. The chain, multiplying the blows of the ram by its lashings, caused a terrible whirl around the cannon,an iron whip in a fist of brass, and complicated the combat. Yet the man struggled. At times, even, it was the man who attacked the cannon; he crouched along the side, holding his bar and his rope; and the cannon seemed to understand, and, as though divining a snare, fled. The man, formidable, pursued it.

Such things cannot last long. The cannon seemed to say all at once: "Come! there must be an end to this!" and it stopped. The approach of the denouement was felt. The cannon, as in suspense, seemed to have, or did have, because to all it was like a living thing, a ferocious premeditation. Suddenly, it precipitated itself on the gunner. The gunner drew to one side, let it pass, and called to it, laughing: "Try again.” The cannon, as though furious, broke a carronade to larboard; then, seized again by the invisible sling which held it, bounded to starboard towards the man, who escaped. Three carronades sunk down under the pressure of the cannon; then, as though blind, and

knowing no longer what it was doing, it turned its back to the man, rolled backward and forward, put the stem out of order, and made a breach in the wall of the prow. The man had taken refuge at the foot of the ladder, a few steps from the old man who was present. The gunner held his handspike at rest. The cannon seemed to perceive him, and without taking the trouble to turn around, fell back on the man with the promptness of an axe-stroke. The man if driven against the side was lost. All the crew gave a cry.

But the old passenger, till then immovable, sprang forward, more rapidly than all those wild rapidities. He had seized a bale of false assignats, and, at the risk of being crushed, he had succeeded in throwing it between the wheels of the cannon. This decisive and perilous movement could not have been executed with more promptness and precision by a man accustomed to all the manœuvres of sea-gunnery.

The bale had the effect of a plug. A pebble stops a bulk; a branch of a tree diverts an avalanche. The cannon stumbled. The gunner in his turn, taking advantange of this terrible juncture, plunged his iron bar between the spokes of one of the hind wheels. The cannon stopped. It leaned forward. The man using his bar as a lever, made it rock. The heavy mass turned over, with the noise of a bell tumbling down, and the man, rushing headlong, trickling with sweat, attached the slip-knot of the gun-tackle to the bronze neck of the conquered monster.

It was finished. The man had vanquished. The ant had subdued the mastodon; the pigmy had made a prisoner of the thunderbolt.-Victor Hugo.

THE

"GOOD-NIGHT, PAPA."

HE words of a blue-eyed child as she kissed her chubby hand, and looked down the stairs: "Goodnight, papa; Jessie see you in the morning."

It came to be a settled thing, and every evening, as the mother slipped the white night-gown over the plump shoulders, the little one stopped on the stairs and sang out, "Good-night, papa;" and as the father heard the silvery accents of the child, he came, and taking the cherub in his arms, kissed her tenderly, while the mother's eyes filled, and a swift prayer went up, for, strange to say, this man, who loved his child with all the warmth of his great noble nature, had one fault to mar his manliness. From his youth he loved the wine-cup. Genial in spirit, and with a fascination of manner that won him friends, he could not resist when surrounded by his boon companions. Thus his home was darkened, the heart of his wife bruised and bleeding, the future of his child shadowed.

Three years had the winsome prattle of the baby crept into the avenues of the father's heart, keeping him closer to his home, but still the fatal cup was in his hand.

With unutterable tenderness, God saw there was no other way; this father was dear to him, the purchase of his Son; he could not see him perish, and, calling a swift messenger, he said, "Speed thee to earth and bring the babe."

"Good-night, papa," sounded from the stairs. What was there in the voice? was it the echo of the mandate, “Bring me the babe"?—a silvery plaintive sound, a lingering music that touched the father's

heart, as when a cloud crosses the sun. "Good-night, my darling;" but his lips quivered and his broad brow grew pale. "Is Jessie sick, mother? Her cheeks are

flushed, and her eyes have a strange light."

"Not sick," and the mother stooped to kiss the flushed brow; "she may have played too much. Pet is not sick?"

"Jessie tired, mamma. Good-night, papa; Jessie see you in the morning."

"That is all, she is only tired," said the mother as she took the small hand. Another kiss, and the father turned away; but his heart was not satisfied.

Sweet lullabies were sung; but Jessie was restless and could not sleep. "Tell me a story, mamma;” and the mother told of the blessed babe that Mary cradled, following along the story till the child had grown to walk and play. The blue, wide-open eyes filled with a strange light, as though she saw and comprehended more than the mother knew.

That night the father did not visit the saloon; tossing on his bed, starting from a feverish sleep and bending over the crib, the long weary hours passed. Morning revealed the truth-Jessie was smitten with the fever.

"Keep her quiet," the doctor said; "a few days of good nursing, and she will be all right."

Words easy said; but the father saw a look on the sweet face such as he had never seen before. He knew the message was at the door.

Night came. 'Jessie is sick; can't say good-night, papa;" and the little clasping fingers clung to the father's hand.

"O God, spare her! I cannot, cannot bear it!" was wrung from his suffering heart.