pids, while the raft broke up with
a dull thunder followed by sharp reports as the more slender trunks
snapped with the strain.

Mark looked on with a sombre fascination, as if the raft typified his
life's happiness, till it was all over, and some of the trunks,
carried by a cross current into a little creek, had been pulled in to
the shore with long hooks, and the rest had floated on again in placid
procession, their scraped wet edges gleaming in the sunlight.

As he turned towards the town again, he saw the porter of their hotel
crossing the bridge, with the director's little son, a sturdy
flaxen-haired boy of about four, running by his side. They passed
through the covered part of the bridge and were hidden for an instant,
and then turned up the road towards the station.

'They are coming this way,' said Mabel. 'I do believe little Max is
bringing me a letter, the darling! I'll run down to the gate and give
him a kiss for it.'

For the child's stolid shyness had soon given way to Mabel's advances,
and now he would run along the hotel corridors after her like a little
dog, and his greatest delight was to be allowed to take her letters to
her. They were close to the mount now, the porter in his green baize
apron and official flat cap, and little Max in his speckled blue
blouse, trotting along to keep up, and waving the envelope he held in
his brown fist. Mark could see from where he stood that it was not a
letter that the child was carrying.

'It's a telegram, Mabel,' he said, disturbed, though there was no
particular cause as yet for being so.

Mabel instantly concluded the worst. 'I knew it,' she said, and the
colour left her cheeks and she caught at the rough wooden rail for
support. 'Dolly is ill.... Go down and see what it is.... I'm afraid!'

Mark ran down to the gate, and took the telegram away from little Max,
whose mouth trembled piteously at not being allowed to deliver it in
person to the pretty English lady, and--scarcely waiting to hear the
porter's explanation that as he had to come up to the station he had
brought the message with him, knowing that he would probably find the
English couple in their favourite retreat--he tore open the envelope
as he went up the winding path. The first thing that met him was the
heading: _From H. Caffyn, Pillar Hotel, Wastwater_, and he dared not
go on. Something very serious must have happened, since Caffyn had
sent a telegram! Before he could read further Mabel c