"But we’ll be all right, if it don’t set in to rainin’ ag’in," said Upchurch, taking a sweeping glance at the clouds rolling so darkly above them. "An’ ef it does?" Ab dryly inquired. "Well, I reckon we will, ennyhow; the bridge is new," Sam easily and carelessly replied. It did rain again, heavy, flooding rains, and they were detained in town until quite late. Indeed, they did not realize how swiftly the day passed, until night was upon them. "Better lie over in town to-night. Bear Creek ain’t er pleasant sight jes’ now," said an acquaintance, who also lived beyond the creek. But Sam Upchurch shook his head. "No, Peggy’ll be a-lookin’ fer us, an’ the bridge is strong. There ain’t no danger, ef the water does run over it." "You don’t know that. My old woman’ll be a-lookin’ fer me, too, but I ain’t a-goin’ ter risk my life jes’ fer that," muttered the other countryman, shrugging his shoulders. It was dark when the belated travelers reached the creek—not the gray darkness of twilight, but the pitchy blackness of a clouded, stormy night. They could hear the rush and roar of the stream, and the horse trembled and shrank back from it in fear, but, urged on by his master’s voice, he ventured in. For many a day Sam Upchurch reproached himself for that rash and foolhardy act, but he had such faith in the strength of the bridge, that he did not think of danger until with a desperate plunge they were floundering in the creek. "Good God! the bridge is gone!" he groaned, and the next moment felt the buggy swept away from him by the strong current. "Ab!" he shouted loudly. "Here I am. Can you swim, Sam?" "Not much here," he cried hoarsely, realizing that only a bare chance of life remained. A vision of his home rose up before him, and of his wife and children; life never seemed so precious and desirable a thing as when death stared him in the face. He groaned aloud; then he heard Ab’s voice close beside him— "Ketch onter this limb." It was a willow bough clipping into the water, a slender, flexible thing, not strong enough to bear the weight of both men; but Upchurch did not know that when he clutched so desperately at the frail chance of salvation. Ab loosened his grasp. "What’s the matter?" cried his brother-in-law in quick alarm, for the poor fellow brushed against him as the strong, swift current carried him away. "Nothin’! Git home ter Peggy an’ the chillun if you can. I’m goin’"—but there his voice died away, was swallowed up in the confusion of noises around them. Upchurch shouted himself hoarse, but no reply came back to him, and chilled and stiffened he drew himself up out of the water, realizing at last that Ab had given up to him the one chance of life that lay between them.