Fulvia, as she seized the bough, drew Ethel nearer; and the gentle force of the stream rather tended now to wash them against it than to carry them away. But they could feel no ground for their feet; and though the water buoyed them up, it was very cold—far colder than Fulvia would have expected. She gazed about in eager quest for help, and could see no one. While they could cling, they were, as she had said, safe. The question was, how long the power of each would last? To get to shore unaided was not possible. Even if they could have attempted to work themselves along by the side of the bough, passing hand over hand—an easy matter to a boy, though by no means easy to a girl—it would have been useless. The branch soon curved upwards out of reach, and unless they could climb into the tree, which was out of the question, they would have to cross unaided a space of deep water, which was equally out of the question. Moreover, Fulvia had serious doubts as to the strength of their support. She did not think it would stand any severe strain. The branch, as a whole, was less stout than it had appeared at a little distance: there were signs about it of age, and of something approaching to rottenness, and higher up, half-way to the bank, she could actually see a slight split, as if the part on which they depended had begun to break off. It might only have begun with the pull of their sudden weight, as Fulvia was swept against it. She found herself watching that visible split in the wood with fascinated eyes, composed enough to speculate how soon it would widen, yet with terror below. They could do nothing except cling and cry for help. Fulvia called and called again, without result. Ethel made no such attempt. She seemed just conscious, just able to clutch the bough with one hand, the other being under water out of sight; but no words had yet passed her lips, and the look of exhaustion alarmed Fulvia. "I don't see or hear anybody. Some one must surely pass soon. Ethel, are you faint? You look so pale. Don't let go!" This companionship in misfortune drew them together, and she felt that Ethel was in peril for her sake. "Don't let anything make you! Can't you hold with both hands?" "I can't—" "Why not? Have you hurt yourself?" "I think—my wrist—" "Yes; what is it?" "Only—twisted—" "Was that why you had to give way? Is the pain very bad?" "Yes." The monosyllable did for both questions. Fulvia had one arm over the bough by this time. She quitted her grip of it with the other, and grasped Ethel's dress instead. "That will help you, will it not?" she said. "Now you cannot go. Ethel, be brave; do try to hope. Somebody is sure to come soon. You must not let yourself faint. This can't last long."