“Go to sleep, Mary,” commanded Mr. McBirney in a sleepy voice. “I’ve got to have my night’s rest.” And indeed, he seemed to be beginning it before he had finished his sentence, for the next moment above all the clamor and uproar of the gale, ma could hear his steady and wholesome snore. But she lay awake, turning this way and that, creeping out of bed to look from the window, where nothing could be seen but this latter deluge, and then huddling in again, praying for the three wandering children. And as a matter of fact, prayers could not come amiss for any of them that night. And really, her own freckled Jim needed them rather more than the two she had taken under her motherly wing. For James Stuart McBirney encountered that night one of the greatest dangers of his short but interesting career. The two drenched boys had urged their horses up the slippery mountain road, and the horses had plunged on, half blinded by the storm. The way had been difficult, but all had gone well enough till they came to the falls where Jim had, several weeks before, shown Hi his mill and dam. The fall was roaring down the mountain side, and the boys had no choice but to cross the swollen torrent as it foamed and writhed across the roadway. In fair weather this was a safe enough crossing, and Jim loved it beyond any words of his to say. He would pause here while his horse drank, and he himself would sit staring at the dream-like valley, thinking vague and happy thoughts. But to-night, as he was to learn, the great boulders that had been placed at the outer edge of the road had been carried away, and the black water was an enemy—the water which had so often been his playmate. Midstream, he felt his horse slipping. “Mac!” he called sharply, slapping the animal encouragingly, “Mac! Pull up!”