“Where is your sister?” he faltered, dashing the water from his eyes; and then, without waiting for an answer, he was away like an arrow from the bow, running beside the river as hard as man can run. Tom set off running too, and presently saw Macpherson, now far ahead, plunge into the flood. A dead tree, bleached by last winter’s storms, went sweeping past him, checked now and again by projecting rocks or overhanging boughs, and then driven on once more by the overwhelming force of the water. For an instant the boy threw himself upon the ground sobbing loud in agonising dread, and then again he struggled to his feet, choked down his sobs, and ran on at his utmost speed. Not very far down the river turned at a sharp angle towards the nearer bank, and a few old alders leaned out between the rocks. As Tom drew near enough to distinguish one object from another amongst the foam and swirling water, he gave a glad shout, “Hold on! hold on!” and in another two minutes, holding by the alders, he was clambering down towards the edge of the water, where Macpherson had caught a bough with one hand and with the other supported Lily, who was clinging to his shoulder. “Give her your hand,” said Macpherson, rather faintly. “I can do nothing.” “Can you give me your hand, Lily?” panted the boy, leaning down. “Can you climb a bit?” “Oh! save us, Tom! I can’t let go,” Lily gasped, helpless with terror. “There’s no footing,” said Macpherson, desperately. Tom laid himself carefully along the trunk, and reaching down, succeeded in taking firmly hold of Lily’s hand. Macpherson at the same moment exerted his flagging strength to lift her a little towards the friendly boughs. “Be brave,” he said, detaching her clinging hands. Tom pulled valiantly, and in another minute she was safe; only half out of the water it is true, and trembling with cold and fright, but still able to hold on, and with Tom’s help climb up on to dry land. “Thank God!” Macpherson uttered, and added, “Is she hurt?” but before either could answer they heard a crashing noise and a cry, and steadying themselves to look downwards, saw the dead tree, which had been caught somewhere higher up and detained a little while, go swinging round the curve with its roots tossing in the air, and Macpherson—? Macpherson was gone, and the lower boughs, where he and Lily had been clinging, were all broken and torn away. * * * * * Two hours later Mrs. Echalaz was brought to the verge of hysterics at the sight of her daughter, wet from head to foot, her face scratched and bruised, her long wet hair hanging tangled about her shoulders, without hat or gloves, and alone, hurrying towards the house.