Ah! what a struggle that was, through a mile of angry, tumbling waters, now from the crest of a wave catching a glimpse of thosethey go to rescue, now sunk in a deep hollow that threatens to engulf them. Through all, the little frail boat goes on its errand of mercy. Can we not imagine how the wife and mother watched it through the lighthouse glass? Let us take our post by her, and try to feel for a moment as she felt. From her lofty post she can mark the progress of the boat. It is slow but sure. When first it sank out of her sight in the trough of a great billow, her heart sank too; but see, rises again, and with it a prayer and thanksgiving ascend from the mother's heart. The daughter rows with a manly strength,--no signs of fatigue. Will they reach the wreck in time? Oh! the boat goes so slowly, though those two devoted ones work so hard. On, on, still on, nearer and nearer. Now comes the moment of greatest danger. Ah! they are too eager to get in,--they will swamp the boat. No, their very weakness prevents that. The stronger help the more feeble; they are all in now; all safe so far; nine human beings saved so _far_; but can eleven come safe to land? Once more the boat mounts on the creasts of the waves, once more she sinks into the hollows, and nearer, nearer, nearer she creeps on. Other duties now claim the attention of the anxious watcher. Fires must be kindled, and food must be prepared, or the good work will be left unfinished; and from time to time she runs to the window to watch their progress. The keel grates upon the beach,--voices are heard; they are all safely housed, and the loved girl comes up smiling, happy in the success of her good deed, and all unconscious that her name is henceforth famous through the world. England need not envy France her Charlotte Corday, while the name of Grace Darling shines, in letters of gold, upon the pages of her own history. The renowned Hugh Grotius had a wife who ought to be called the renowned Mary Grotius. When he was condemned for his political writings, to be imprisoned for life, she accompanied him, though the hard condition was, that she too was to remain a prisoner. After a while she was allowed to go out occasionally. She borrowed books for him, which were carried to and fro, with his linen, in a chest. When long custom had made the guards careless in examining this chest, she packed her husband in it one fine day, and sent him to the wash, staying in the prison herself, and pretending that he was ill in bed. She was let out too, after some severe treatment. There was a woman who never performed any grand, heroic action, who lived a quiet, domestic life; did nothing brilliant, wrote no poems, suffered no martyrdom. For thirty-eight years she was a ministering angel to her husband; and he was not an invalid, whose caprices tried her temper, and made her life a lasting trial. On the contrary, his health was good, and his spirits ever equal.