uddenly stopped. A cry, a noise, fell
upon his ears. There, yes, to the right. He rushed on. He saw dim
forms of people, and into their midst he sprang like a wildcat after
its prey.

He hardly knew what he said. He comprehended not the meaning of what
they were doing. He only heard a yell of fright as a wild, hurried
scramble for the high banks ensued, while something fell with a dull
thud almost at his very feet.

He was about to follow the miners and Indians in their flight, when a
groan arrested his steps. He looked down. It was a man, helpless and
bound. What did it mean? What was that crowd doing there in the
darkness? The thoughts surged like lightning through his brain. He
reeled and almost fell. But the roar above nerved him. He called for
help, but only the waters sent back their terrible response.
Desperate, determined, he seized the prostrate man in his arms and
staggered with him toward the bank. Would he reach it? Would his
strength hold out? Yes. No. O God, help him! for the cruel waters
had reached him! They thrust out their long, icy tongues, they swept
him off his feet and hurled him forward, still grasping in his arms the
body of the helpless man.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE SHADOWED GLEN

The night the jam gave way Constance was seated by the table engaged
upon a piece of needlework. The candle by her side threw its feeble,
flickering beams upon her dark hair and well-formed face. The rich
tide of health was not flowing as of old, free and strong. It had fled
from her cheeks, leaving them at times very white. Occasionally her
busy fingers ceased and her work lay unheeded in her lap, while a
far-away look stole into her dark brown eyes. The wind beat against
the little window and shook the loose panes of glass; it whirled around
the cabin, and rattled the rudely constructed stove pipe. Constance
shivered, but not from the cold, and often unconscious sighs escaped
her lips.

Her father was sitting near, reading, or pretending to read, a book
Keith had loaned him. It was one of the few volumes left of the
missionary's carefully chosen library. The rest had gone up in smoke.
It exemplified the truth that what we keep we lose; what we give we
have. Mr. Radhurst was much improved. The haggard look had left his
face; his eyes were clear and his step strong and decisive as of old.
Occasionally his gaze wandered from the page he was reading to his
daughter's face. He was