There have been some exciting incidents among the lights strung around the south-eastern toe of England. The vessel outside Dover harbour appears to be particularly unlucky, or to exercise such a peculiar magnetism upon passing vessels that they must needs embrace her. This is the peril that a lightship crew dreads more than any other. Certainly it seems a sorry trick of Fortune that occasionally the workers in the cause of humanity should be compelled to fight desperately for their lives from a blow inflicted by the very interests they strive might and main to protect. The Dover light was sent to the bottom twice within a very short time, and in each instance the men were rescued only in the nick of time. On another occasion a relief lightship was being towed to a station on the east coast, the acting vessel being much in need of overhaul and repair. The tug laboured through the North Sea with her charge, and just before daybreak sighted the twinkling light which was her goal. She eased up, meaning to stand by with her charge until the beacon’s round of vigilance should be over, and the light extinguished before the gathering dawn. Her crew saw the light grow dimmer, until it was no longer of sufficient power to penetrate the whitening haze. With the sun just creeping over the horizon the tug weighed anchor, and, heralding her approach vociferously on the siren, steamed slowly towards the danger spot. To the surprise of the captain, there came no answering blare. When he thought he was alongside the light-vessel he stopped, and the haze lifted. But there was no sign of the light-vessel; she had vanished completely. The captain of the tug and the master of the relief-boat wondered what had happened, but without more ado the relief-ship was moored in position, and the tug returned home empty-handed. There the crew heard one of those grim stories sometimes related in the service. The light-keepers had sighted the tug with the relief-vessel, and were anticipating keenly their return to civilization, when there was a crash! A cliff of steel reared above them like a knife-edge; a vessel had blundered into them, cutting their home in two. The next moment they were shot pell-mell into the water as their craft sank beneath their feet. On a calm day, when the lightship is riding quietly at anchor, and the members of the crew, maybe, are beguiling the tedium by fishing, a passer-by on a liner is apt to consider the life one of quietness and enjoyment, albeit monotonous. But contrast this placidity with the hours of storm. Then the ungainly vessel writhes and twists, saws and rasps at the chains which hold her prisoner. At one moment, with bow uplifted, she is on the crest of a spray-enveloped roller; the next instant she drives her dipping nose into the hissing white and green valley, meanwhile lurching and staggering wildly as she ships a sea, first on this side and then on that.