that this
morning she did not appear her usual self.

"Mel, are you well?" he asked.

"Yes, I am perfectly well," she replied. "I couldn't sleep much last
night on account of that roar."

"Don't wonder. This flood will be the greatest ever known in
Middleville."

"Yes, and that makes more suffering for the poor."

"There are already many homeless. It's fortunate our cottage is
situated on this high bank. Just look! I declare, jostling logs and
whirling drifts! There's a pen of some kind with an object upon it."

"It's a pig. Oh! poor piggy!" said Mel, compassionately.

A hundred yards out in the rushing yellow current a small house or
shed drifted swiftly down stream. Upon it stood a pig. The animal
seemed to be stolidly contemplating the turbid flood as if unaware of
its danger.

Here the river was half a mile wide, and full of trees, stumps,
fences, bridges, sheds--all kinds of drifts. Just below the cottage
the river narrowed between two rocky cliffs and roared madly over
reefs and rocks which at a low stage of water furnished a playground
for children. But now that space was terrible to look upon and the
dull roar, with a hollow boom at intervals, was dreadful to hear.

"Daren--I--I've kept something from you," said Mel, nervously. "I
should have told you yesterday."

"What?" interrupted Lane, sharply.

"It's this. It's about poor Blair.... He--he's dead!"

Lane stared at her white face as if it were that of a ghost.

"Blair! You should have told me. I must go to see him."

It was not a long ride from the terminus of the car line to where the
Maynards lived, yet measured by Lane's growing distress of mind it
seemed a never-ending journey.

He breathed a deep breath of relief when he got off the car, and when
the Maynard homestead loomed up dark and silent, he hung back
slightly. A maid admitted Lane, and informed him that Mr. Maynard was
ill and Mrs. Maynard would not see any one. Margaret was not at home.
The maid led Lane across the hall into the drawing-room and left him
alone.

In the middle of the room stood a long black cloth-covered box. Lane
stepped forward. Upon the dark background, in striking contrast, lay a
white, stern face, marble-like in its stone-cold rigidity. Blair, his
comrade!

The moment Lane saw the face, his strange fear and old gloomy
bitterness returned. Something shot through him which trembled in his
soul. To him the story of Blair's sacrifice was there to read in hi