path which'll take all the pluck ye've got, but the right
one, nevertheless--the fine, true way. And when such a time comes,
shure, ye'll remember what _he_ did that day----"

Johnnie's eyes were closed again. From under his shining lashes the
tears were beginning to creep, finding their way in long letter S's down
his pale cheeks. "I'll think o' what my father did!" he answered. "Oh, I
will, Father Pat! My fine, wonderful father!"

"Could he have chosen t' be saved, and leave the young wife there? O'
course, he could not--if ever he wanted t' have a peaceful thought
again, or the respect o' men and women. But maybe he didn't even think
o' all this, but just did the brave act naturally--instinctively. No, he
would not be saved without her. And--the ropes were both out o' reach,
now, and the ice cake was floatin' swifter, and swifter, and, dear!
dear! breakin' at one side.

"His wife in his arms, he faced about, holdin' the slim, brown figure
against his heart. He was talkin' to her then, I'll be bound, sayin' all
the tender, lovin' things that could ease her agony, though as,
mercifully enough now, she was limp in his hold, likely she could not
even hear."

"Oh, I hope so!" said Cis. "Then she wouldn't be suffering!"

"From the shore the people watched them, and from the bridge. But manny
could not watch, for, ah, 'twas a tragic sight. Some o' these prayed;
some hid their faces. But others shouted--in encouragement, maybe, or
just terror. Annyhow, the young husband, hearin' the calls, lifted his
face t' that high bridge. And 'twas then _he_ called--just once, but
they heard. And what he called was a single name, and that name
was--_Johnnie_."

Down went Cis's head then, and she wept without restraint. But Johnnie
was somehow uplifted now, as by pride. "I can see him!" he cried. "My
father! Just as _plain_!" He sat up straight again, though his eyes were
still shut. "I can see his face, smilin', and his light hair! Why, it's
as if he was lookin' straight at _me_!" Then trembling again into
One-Eye's hold, "But I can't see my mother's face, 'cause it's turned
away, hidin' on my father's shoulder. I can see just her back. Oh,
my--poor--m-mother!"

"He was thinkin' o' the baby he was leavin' behind," went on the priest,
"in that last moment o' his life. And if she was, too, then it's no
wonder the gentle thing couldn't lift her head."

"Oh! Oh, Father Pat!"--while One-Eye stroked the yellow hair he had
ruffled, a