“It’s darker now than midnight—they are all gone from me—wife, daughter, all; oh, Alice, Alice, my bright, my beautiful one. Why did God take you from me when I needed you so much?” “She may not be dead,” said Mr. Howland, and touched with the grief of the stricken man, his own tears dropped on Alice’s face. But they did not rouse her, and with a terrible fear at his heart, he lifted her lightly in his arms, saying to her father: “My house is nearer than any other—we must go there.” Dizzy and faint with excitement, Mr. Warren arose to his feet, but to walk was impossible, and sinking back upon the grass, he cried: “Leave me here and care for her. You can send for me by and by.” This seemed the only alternative, and Mr. Howland started for home, meeting ere long with several of the villagers who had been alarmed by the stranger. A few of them kept on to the river, while others accompanied Mr. Howland to the house, where crowds of people were soon assembled, and where every possible means were used for Alice’s recovery. But they seemed in vain, and when at last the poor old father reached the door he knew by the death-like silence pervading the room, that the physician had said, “no hope.” “Lead me to her, somebody—lead me to Alice,” he whispered, and taking his outstretched arm, Mr. Howland led him to the couch where Alice lay, her wavy hair clinging in damp masses to her forehead, and her long eyelashes resting upon her marble cheek. Quickly the trembling fingers sought the heart, but alas! they felt no motion, and more than one turned away to weep as they saw the look of bitter anguish settling down upon the father’s face. There was yet one test more, and laying his ear upon the bosom of his child, the blind man listened intently, while the lookers-on held their breath in agonizing suspense. Suddenly through the room there rang the wild, glad cry, “I hear it—she lives, she lives!” and with renewed courage the people returned to their labor, which this time was successful, for she who had been so near to death, came slowly back to life, and when the sun went down, its last parting rays shone on the bowed head of one who from his inmost soul was thanking God for not having written him “childless.” It was thought advisable that Alice should remain where she was for a day or two, and they carried her into a large, pleasant chamber, overlooking the town, Miss Elinor constituting herself the nurse, and ever and anon bending down to kiss the lips of the young girl who had so narrowly escaped a watery grave. Meanwhile, in the parlors below, both Mr. Warren and Mr. Howland were making inquiries for the stranger, who, after giving the alarm, had suddenly disappeared. No one had seen him since, and of those who had seen him before, none knew who he was or whence he came.