Jack was proud of the bridge, for it was his own. The thought of building a bridge over the river had been his own original thought; the device of the bridge had been his own original device, and the money required for its erection had come solely out of his own pocket, advanced for the public good, with no hope of its return till after the lapse of many years, when the penny toll levied upon every crosser should have realised the outlay. The bridge might not be built upon very scientific principles, but in spite of many a laugh at Jack's expense, and many a prophecy from some wise passer-by, that it would last as many nights as days, it had already borne three years' wear, and at least one good winter-flood before this particular night with which we have to do. But this night's flood was a different thing to that of two years back; indeed the country-folk had said, as they had crossed the bridge to market on Saturday morning, that never in their memory had the river risen so high. And though Jack wore a cheerful countenance as he took his toll, and assured each one that his bridge was good for sixty years, deep down in his heart there lurked a secret fear each night, as he lay down to sleep, that he might wake to find it had been carried away while he slept; but since market-day three days had gone by, and still the bridge hung bravely over the roaring stream. Jack's little home was a noisy one at this flood-time, built, as it was, so close upon the water's edge, that the roar of the river, foaming and dashing over its rocky bed, was like constant thunder in his ear. But he lived all alone, and, as he said, "did not want to hear himself speak," so the noise did not matter. He could ply his shoemaking trade, which he took up between times, when boating was slack, and fishing out of season, just as well with a roar of water in his ear as without. Moreover, he did not know but that "a bit of a noise was company." His mind was, however, a little perturbed to-night; there was something uncanny to his ear in the wild whistling of the wind, and he could not settle to his work as calmly as usual. In fact, he had a superstitious fit upon him, and felt nervous, though he would on no account acknowledge it, even to himself.