You may never be called upon to perform such acts of heroism as distinguished many American women during the struggle for independence; but it will be good for you to imbibe, from their contemplation, a touch of the spirit which prompted them. Who would not wish to resemble Mrs. Motte, when her large new house was garrisoned by the English. The American generals, loth to destroy the widow's home, hesitated to expel them by fire. She presented to them the Indian bow with its apparatus for igniting the shingle roof, counting ruin as nothing in the scale against patriotism. Then, again, the gentlewoman succeeds the patriot as she receives the vanquished foes in her poor termporary home, entertains them hospitably, and, womanlike, endeavors to soothe the mortification of defeat. Picture to yourselves a group of despairing wretches, clinging all night to a fragment of a wreck, and to the remorseless rock on which it had been dashed. All through the stormy Autumn night they had clung there, amid rain, and wind, and darkness, holding on still, yet without hope; they are miles from the shore, and they know that, as the tide rises, they must be swallowed up, one by one, or all swept off at once by the hungry waves. Far away, during that terrible night, they had seen a faint, twinkling light. It was from a lighthouse--a sailor who was among the group of miserable creatures, told them it was the Longstone Lighthouse,--a mile away, too far for any one to see them down there on a level with the sea; and even if they were seen, there was no life-boat there, and no person but an old man and woman, with their son and daughter. _They _could never bring a boat to their deliverance. There were fewer people than he supposed at that time in the lighthouse, for the son was absent,--the only one, it would seem, who might have had the strength and courage to venture to their assistance. Besides, what chance was there that they would be discovered? Yet, at that very moment, clear, bright eye, looking through a telescope for signs of the storm's cruel havoc, lights on them, and takes in at once all the perils of their position. It is the eye of a girl of eighteen; she has the courage of a Roman, the compassion of a Christian. Calling to her father to accompany her, she hastens to their boat. Remonstrance is in vain. She will not listen to her parents, she will not wait a moment; all she thinks of, is those unhappy sufferers, for the returning tide _must_ wash them off. If her father will not go, she will go alone, and, live or die, make the attempt to save them. Her energy bears down all doubts; the boat is launched,--even the poor wife and mother helping. And, ah! think of _her_, as she sees it leave the rock to which it may never return. Think what _she_ gives to the service of mercy. She must have been a worthy mother of such a daughter. Father and child, each take an oar, and pull, not for their lives, but for the lives of others.