was galloping across the Pottery, straight for
the spot where the water was rising from the drain. Amanda, gazing in
wonder at the fight of the people about her, stood right in its course,
but took no heed of it, or never saw it coming. It caught her, swept her
away, and tumbled with her, foaming and roaring, into the deep
foundation of which I have spoken. Her father had just missed her, and
was looking a little anxiously round, when a shriek of horror and fear
burst from the people, and they rushed to the hole. Without a word
spoken he knew Amanda was in it. He darted through them, scattering men
and women in all directions, but pulling off his coat as he ran.

Though getting old, he was far from feeble, and had been a strong
swimmer in his youth. But he plunged heedlessly, and the torrent, still
falling some little height, caught him, and carried him almost to the
bottom. When he came to the top, he looked in vain for any sign of the
child. The crowd stood breathless on the brink. No one had seen her,
though all eyes were staring into the tumult. He dived, swam about
beneath, groping in the frightful opacity, but still in vain. Then down
through the water came a shout, and he shot to the surface--to see only
something white vanish. But the recoil of the torrent from below caught
her, and just as he was diving again, brought her up almost within
arm's-length of him. He darted to her, clasped her, and gained the
brink. He could not have got out, though the cavity was now brimful, but
ready hands had him in safety in a moment. Fifty arms were stretched to
take the child, but not even to Dorothy would he yield her. Ready to
fall at every step, he blundered through the water, which now spread
over the whole place, and followed by Dorothy in mute agony, was making
for the shed behind which lay his boat, when one of the salmon fishers,
who had brought his coble in at the gap, crossed them, and took them up.
Mr. Drake dropped into the bottom of the boat, with the child pressed to
his bosom. He could not speak.

"To Doctor Faber's! For the child's life!" said Dorothy, and the fisher
rowed like a madman.

Faber had just come in. He undressed the child with his own hands,
rubbed her dry, and did every thing to initiate respiration. For a long
time all seemed useless, but he persisted beyond the utmost verge of
hope. Mr. Drake and Dorothy stood in mute dismay. Neither was quite a
_child_ of God yet, and in the old man a rebell