Through every hour of this awful night Tom Camp was in his room praying--his face now streaming with tears, now dry and white with the unspoken terror that could stop the beat of his heart. His white hair and snow-white beard were dishevelled, as he unconsciously tore them with his trembling hands. Now he was crying in an agony of intensity, “As thy servant of old wrestled with the angel of the Lord through the night, so, oh God, will I lie at Thy feet and wrestle and pray! I will not let Thee go until Thou bless me! Though I perish, let her live! I have lost all and praised Thee still. Lord, Thou canst not leave me desolate!” From the pain of his wound and the exhaustion of soul and body he fainted once with his lips still moving in prayer. For more than an hour he lay as one dead. When he revived, he looked at his clock and it was but an hour till dawn. Again he fell on his knees, and again the broken accents of his husky voice could be heard wrestling with God. Now he would beg and plead like a child, and then he would rise in the unconscious dignity of an immortal soul in combat with the powers of the infinite and his language was in the sublime speech of the old Hebrew seers! Just before the sun rose the signal gun pealed its message of life, ONE! TWO! in rapid succession. Tom sprang to his feet with blazing eyes. _One! Two!_ echoed the guns from another hill, and fainter grew its repeated call from group to group of the searchers. “There! Glory to God!” He screamed at the top of his voice, the last note of his triumphant shout breaking into sobs. “God be praised! I knew they would find her--she’s not dead, she’s alive! _alive!_ oh! my soul, lift up thy head!” The tramp of swift feet was heard at the door and Gaston told him with husky stammering voice, “She’s alive Tom, but unconscious. I ’ll have her brought to the house. She was found just where your spring branch runs into the Flat Rock, not five hundred yards from here in those woods. Stay where you are. We will bring her in a minute.” Gaston bounded back to the scene. Tom paid no attention to his orders to stay at home, but sprang after him jumping and falling and scrambling up again as he followed. Before they knew it he was upon the excited tearful group that stood in a circle around the child’s body. Gaston, who was standing on the opposite side from Tom’s approach, saw him and shouted, “My God, men, stop him! Don’t let him see her yet!” But Tom was too quick for them. He brushed aside, the boy who caught at him, as though a feather, crying, “Stand back!” The circle of men fell away from the body and in a moment Tom stood over it transfixed with horror. Flora lay on the ground with her clothes torn to shreds and stained with blood. Her beautiful yellow curls were matted across her forehead in a dark red lump beside a wound where her skull had been crushed. The stone lay at her side, the crimson mark of her life showing on its jagged edges.