“‘O SAVIOUR OF THE WORLD, WHO BY THY CROSS AND PRECIOUS BLOOD HAST REDEEMED US, SAVE US, AND HELP US, WE HUMBLY BESEECH THEE, O LORD.’” The next moment they were in the full course of the river, rushing with it down, down,—where! There was no power of rowing upstream, and no need to row down. They could only keep the boat as steady as possible, and fend off the wreckage from every side, every man’s eyes strained meanwhile for any chance of saving life. At last Ernest Clare gave a great cry. Dancing gayly down the river, as if at play upon the fearful tide, was a heavy, wooden cradle, hollowed from a single block. As it floated past him, Mr. Clare caught from it a little wailing baby, perhaps six months old. He gave it to Louis, who sat in the stern, and tried to steer as far as steering was possible. “Button it inside your coat,” he said, and Louis tried to obey. The child felt the grateful warmth, hushed its wailing, and even fell asleep from exhaustion. The little face peeped out just below the collar of the young man’s coat, his arm was round it, and he felt with a strange sensation the feeble throbbing of its baby bosom, and the sweet, warm baby breath stealing upward to his neck. Now a huge beam went crashing against the window of a house round which the waters raged madly. “It’s no matter,” said Fritz; “the man that lives there is a fellow with some snap to him. He moved out his family early this afternoon.” The inhabitants of the next house had not been so fortunate, for faces were dimly visible in the dark windows, and voices were heard crying for rescue in the name of God. One of the boats was filled with them, father, mother, and eight children, wet, cold, and miserable, crouching wretchedly in the bottom of the boat, and half disposed, as it tossed seemingly at the mercy of the stream, to think it a bad exchange for the house, which at least, as yet, stood firm. Boat-load after boat-load was thus rescued, and set ashore at the nearest point whence they could make their way to a place of succor; for all the churches and public buildings, and many private houses, stood open that night, and warm food, shelter, and dry clothing were ready for all who claimed them. And still the boats went on, on with the current, upon their errand of mercy. Here delayed by the wreckage, there set free by a blow from some passing timber,—still they kept steadily on down the stream. And now there came to Louis a strange experience. For it seemed to him that before them moved a white Figure, wherein he recognized that which once trod the Sea of Galilee, and through the rushing of the waves and the roaring of the fierce wind there seemed to fall upon his ears the whisper, “Fear not, it is I.” And as all his life he had followed the Lord Christ, so now, he steered after the glimmer of that white form seen or fancied. And by faith or fancy it led them on till daybreak.