With a cheer, and a hearty one, the rescuers tugged at the net, and scarcely had echo time to answer it, when Ned was seized by strong, brawny arms and hands, and warmly embraced upon his deliverance.

The vicar, distraught with mingled feelings of joy and remaining terror, hugged Ned in his arms and wept upon his breast like a child; while Grace stood, with blanched cheek and ashy lip, supporting her weeping sister, as if waking from some dream of shuddering import.

"It was a wonderful escape, sir," said an old fisherman, the proprietor of the net. "I little expected to see ye more alive than a red herring when I heard where you were. But, thank God! we often find ourselves landed from a wreck when all hope seems lost."

66

Come, come with us!" exclaimed the rejoiced vicar, twining his arm in that of the rescued Ned. "I must not lose sight

of you, my dear friend," continued he, "for many hours to come;" and, for the first time in his life, perhaps, the good, kindhearted man, forgot the failing weakness of his child, who tottered on the support of her sister, scarcely less overcome with excitement than herself.

"Let

Stop for one moment," said Ned, taking from his purse some pieces of gold. me," added he, placing them in the hand of his rescuer, "render something more substantial than thanks for my deliverance."

"I wish, sir," replied the man, with glistening eyes, as he chinked the money, "I could afford to refuse your bounty. But this," and he again rang the coin, "will make a large and poor family happy, and I'll be bold to say ye'll not begrudge one moment of their comfort."

"No," rejoined Ned, giving the speaker a hearty grasp of the hand in return for this honest speech. "Life, even to me, is

worth a high price, higher," continued he, with emphasis, "than I was aware of, until within the shadow of a certainty of losing it."

"Let us stay no longer," said the vicar. "All of us require refreshment and repose after so direful an ordeal. Come, sir, for you must be our especial guest to-day."

CHAPTER II.

"However we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,

More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won,
Than women's are."

UPON Ned Swiftfoot leaving the neighbour-
hood of Woodland Rookery, he fully resolved
to conform to the instructions he received
from his friend the king of the gipsies. To
the metropolis, therefore, he first took his
course, and, assuming the name and rank of
Captain Hartley, soon found himself at home
'mid scenes and adventures he had, for the most
part, never heard of. Tired at length with the
whirl and round of pleasure he at first heed-
lessly threw himself into, and satiated with
the attractions so seductive to the young and

inexperienced, with the "wherewithal" to command them, he turned his back upon the haunts of men and smoke, and from mere chance, without any definite object, save to see for the first time in his life the broad, free, restless ocean, bent his footsteps towards the good old town of Hastings.

Soon after his arrival he was surprised one morning to meet the vicar and his daughters on the sands, enjoying the fresh breeze, and, with the daring, adventurous spirit of his nature, he determined to seek an opportunity of gaining an introduction to them, relying upon his disguise in preventing a recognition.

For a few days no chance presented itself, and his plans were foiled by some mishap or other; but repulse with Ned was but an incentive to exertion.

"I'll exchange a word or two with ye, pretty mistress, this morning," said he to himself, as he tracked the course taken by Grace, on the day of his perilous enter