To throw his tools down--hastily unhook The old crack'd lantern from its dusty nook, And while he lit it, speak a cheering word, That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard, Was but a moment's act, and he was gone To where a fearful foresight led him on. Passing a neighbour's cottage in his way-- Mark Fenton's--him he took with short delay To bear him company--for who could say What need might be? They struck into the track The children should have taken coming back From school that day; and many a call and shout Into the pitchy darkness they sent out, And, by the lantern light, peer'd all about, In every road-side thicket, hole, and nook, Till suddenly--as nearing now the brook-- Something brush'd past them. That was Tinker's bark-- Unheeded, he had follow'd in the dark, Close at his master's heels, but, swift as light, Darted before them now. "Be sure he's right-- He's on the track," cried Ambrose. "Hold the light Low down--he's making for the water. Hark! I know that whine--the old dog's found them, Mark." So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone! And all his dull contracted light could show Was the black void and dark swollen stream below. "Yet there's life somewhere--more than Tinker's whine-- That's sure," said Mark. "So, let the lantern shine Down yonder. There's the dog--and, hark!" "Oh dear!" And a low sob came faintly on the ear, Mock'd by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought, Into the stream leapt Ambrose, where he caught Fast hold of something--a dark huddled heap-- Half in the water, where 'twas scarce knee-deep, For a tall man; and half above it, propp'd By some old ragged side-piles, that had stopt Endways the broken plank, when it gave way With the two little ones that luckless day! "My babes!--my lambkins!" was the father's cry. _One little voice_ made answer--"Here am I!" 'Twas Lizzy's. There she crouch'd, with face as white, More ghastly, by the flickering lantern-light, Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips, drawn tight, Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth, And eyes on some dark object underneath, Wash'd by the turbid water, fix'd like stone-- One arm and hand stretch'd out, and rigid grown, Grasping, as in the death-gripe--Jenny's frock. There she lay drown'd. Could he sustain that shock, The doating father? Where's the unriven rock Can bide such blasting in its flintiest part As that soft sentient thing--the human heart?