The winter which had just ended had been unusually mild; very little snow had fallen, even in the hills; but the months of April and May had been marked by an unusual rainfall, and the Mickle River, though not over its banks, stood at a height which, earlier in the year, would have been decidedly alarming, but which was viewed at this season with complacency as an excellent preparation for the summer droughts. Ascension Day fell this year near the end of May, and the three Rogation days preceding it were, as usual, employed as days of prayer for spiritual but especially for temporal blessings. In some of the churches constant intercession was carried on from six in the morning to nine at night, but of these St. Andrew’s was not one. “I fear I shall never be able to put much heart into a petition for earthly blessings,” said the rector to Ernest Clare, “though I would not say so publicly; and, of course, it is quite right to ask God’s blessing on the fruits of the earth,” he added apologetically; “but to me ‘Thy Will be done’ includes everything.” “‘Give us this day our daily bread,’” returned the other gravely. “Yes, yes, I know; we have the best authority for it, I don’t deny that; but it seems to me more childlike just to trust God for things of earth, and spend one’s time in prayer for things of heaven.” “‘Thy Will be done _on earth_,’” replied the younger clergyman, “and His will is—as He has told us—to clothe and feed us, as He clothes the grass of the field and feeds the sparrows. And that will shall be done one day.” “Ah! there you are with your Communism,” said the rector. “Well, it’s only a matter of feeling, and, I dare say, I’m wrong about it.” “I wish we all had your faith, sir,” said Mr. Clare; “but don’t you think one sometimes learns to pray by needing to pray for bread? Then, afterwards, one can pray for the Bread of Heaven.” “There is no doubt about that,” said the rector. Ascension Day brought another heavy rainstorm to swell the Mickle River,—a storm which increased, with the accompaniment of furious winds, during the night, and on Friday. About the middle of the afternoon Mr. Clare, who, in his capacity of carpenter, had gone up-town to attend to a job, was passing a telegraph office on his way home, when he heard his name called loudly and anxiously; and, turning round, saw a young operator, well known to him and us, by the name of Heinz Rolf, with his body half out of the window, beckoning wildly. “Good God, Mr. Clare! the most horrible disaster!” he gasped, as the clergyman obeyed the summons. “The dam—the Cannomore Dam—has burst; forty feet of water rushing down the Cannomore Valley—thirty thousand people in the water _now_—and”—he paused with his eyes on Mr. Clare’s. The Irish mind is not, like the German, fundamentally geographical; and for a moment the clergyman did not entirely grasp the situation.