In Flood Time.
By MARGARET STANISLAWSKY.
THE water had been coming up slowly and a flood had been dreaded for days, but the bursting of the great dyke was a totally unexpected calamity. The Higginson house was at the lowest part of the valley and the rescuing of the family was the first thought. The largest boat that could be found was sent for them. There were eleven Higginsons, but when the boat arrived it was found that there were, besides, two girls, friends of the daughters. One of the girls was also the fiancee of the oldest son. All could not be taken off without swamping the boat. Who should be left? The water lapping against the old walls would not long leave them standing. It was a question whether they could last till the boat should return. The first story was under water now.
"Well, Frank and I are the ones to stay. If there is any danger we have the best chance, and we are sure to be all right till the boat comes back," said John, the second son. He was arguing with the appeal in his mother's eyes. "W r e will be all right, mother," he added.
"If Frank stays I will not go," said Frank's fiancee, rising up in the boat.
John tried to argue the matter hurriedly; there was no time for delay. One of the oarsmen arose and pushed Frank toward his oar. "No woman would face drowning for me. I'll be less loss," he said.
The other girl visitor heard, and the words fitted into the loneliness of her own life; this and the beauty of the sacrifice to the young happiness of the lovers, touched her to sudden action. She, too, arose, and stepped out on the porch roof. "I do not mind staying. The boat will be back in plenty of time," she said, calmly, in such a matter-of-fact tone that it almost persuaded the boys. The need of haste was urgent, and when the boat pushed oft, both brothers were in, and the girl and the oarsman were left behind. Silently they watched the boat move off, carefully picking its way among the floating logs and fence poles. The waste of waters under the cloud-dimmed moonlight was unutterably dreary.
"We had better go inside," said the man, "and find some wraps. It is cold."
They moved toward the window, where she stood again for a moment and gazed after the boat. He helped her in and drew up a chair to the window. He could only find some coverlets off the beds. These he brought and wrapped around her, making her feet comfortable on the low sill. He threw one down for himself and drew it around him as he leaned against her chair. They gazed out silently on the melancholy waste. It occurred to neither that they had not met before. They seemed to know each other well.
"You know this may mean the last?" he said, after a while.
"Yes," she said, with a shudder—it was so bleak and chill, and they could do nothing but wait. The water was rising very slowly now.
"Why did you stay?" he asked.
"I could not bear to leave you after you said that," she answered; "besides, they seemed to have so much more to live for."
"You are alone, too? I thought so. After all, it was not quite true what I said. You were willing to face it with me?"
"Yes," she said.
He reached out and held her hand. The companionship was warmth in this awful cold and gloom. And now the boat had gone, there were thoughts that would not down. Ruddy, healthy life cannot face slow death without a shudder. They were quite silent for a while. Then he spoke again.
"My brothers and sisters have grown
