boys looked down upon the black current, with
its sharp, treacherous, half-seen rocks and ponderous driftwood. The
wild idea of plunging into the tumult and trying to swim to the bank
faded as they looked. Here in the crazy building there might be a
chance. In that frightful swirl there lurked only a grim certainty.

The house had swung along in the middle of the stream; now its course
was veering slightly to the left. This could be seen through the window
and the interstices of the half-fallen timbers.

The boys were caged, as it were; the doorway was filled with the heavy
debris, and the only possibility of escape was through that little
window. It was so small that only one could pass through at a
time,--only one could be saved.

Jack had seen the chance from far up the stream. There was a stretch of
smooth water close in to the bank, on which was a low-hanging
beech-tree,--he might catch the branches.

They were approaching the spot with great rapidity. Only one could go.
He himself had discovered the opportunity,--it was his own.

Life was sweet,--so sweet! He could not give it up; he could not now
take thought for his friend. He could only hope with a frenzied
eagerness that Andy had not seen the possibility of deliverance.

In another moment Andy lifted himself into the window. A whirlpool
caught the wreck, and there it eddied in dizzying circles. It was not
yet too late. Jack could tear the smaller, weaker fellow away with one
strong hand, and take the only chance for escape. The shattered mill was
dashing through the smoother waters now; the great beech-tree was
hanging over their heads; an inexplicable, overpowering impulse mastered
in an instant Jack's temptation.

"Ketch the branches, Andy!" he cried wildly.

His friend was gone, and he was whirling off alone on those cruel,
frantic waters. In the midst of the torrent he was going down, and down,
and down the mountain.

Now and then he had a fleeting glimpse of the distant ranges. There was
"Elijah's Step," glorified in the sunset, purple and splendid, with red
and gold clouds flaming above it. To his untutored imagination they
looked like the fiery chariot again awaiting the prophet.

The familiar sight, the familiar, oft-repeated fancy, the recollection
of his home, brought sudden tears to his eyes. He gazed wistfully at the
spot whence he believed the man had ascended who left death untasted,
and then he went on in this mad rush down to the bi