"She is better within," he said, turning away with a longing sigh.

And meanwhile Else, poor child, sat in the little hot cottage listening with terror to the roar of the wind, the splitting of the trees, and the awful echoes in the mountains which magnified it all. Her mother tossed restlessly to and fro, with the fever increased tenfold by the parching heat, sometimes delirious, sometimes quiet, sometimes obstinately bent upon the fulfilment of some sick fancy. The only person they saw was Hans, and he was loud in his praises of Christian.

"In such times one finds out who has the head," he said admiringly; "It is Amrhein this and Amrhein that. It was he who dragged Maria Plater out of the way just in time when the chimney fell, and himself cut the great walnut that might have crushed the Lenz' house."

"Ah!” murmured Else, with a little uncontrollable sigh. It seemed to her as if her solitude were growing more than she could bear; the other women were together: Anna Lenz had Christian to care for, to watch over her, while she was separated from them all, terrified at her mother's illness, at the whirl and rush of the tempest; without even the consolation of knowing that Hans' occasional presence was the result of Christian's guardianship -Christian whom she had despised. The wind, which, during the afternoon, moderated at intervals, towards evening was again at its height: Hans looked in as it grew dusk to forbid fires, then she was left lonely to keep the long hours. Wittwe Rothler cried out for water peremptorily; sometimes insisted upon Else doing some unreasonable thing; now and then made the girl shudder by talking to her dead husband as if he were standing between them. The air was full of wails and shrieks; it seemed as though out of all space weird, melancholy voices were lifted up appealingly; distant growlings from the mountains answered the fierce swoop of the wind, clouds rushed wildly across the sky. And over all brooded the heavy, leaden oppression of the Fön. In the village the second night was not so confused as the first, for though the causes for alarm remained, the people had become a little used to them. Some of the women stayed composedly in their houses, a few even slept, overpowered by fatigue and the dry, stifling heat, but the

greater part had taken refuge in the church, and had gathered their children there.

"How long will this last?" asked the priest of Thomas Stürm, when the morning light revealed a further work of destruction.

"Only heaven knows," answered Thomas, "when even my old father has never seen such a Fön."

"There is little more mischief that it can do," the Curé remarked, looking round at the chaos a little drearily. Then he recovered himself, and added cheerfully, "That is ungrateful, since, by the mercy of heaven, we are all here.”

"I, for one, shall be content if nothing worse comes," said Christian, who had joined them.

"Worse ?"

"I am thinking of the stream. This wind will melt the snows."

The Curé was a brave man, but he looked at Christian for a moment with the trouble of a new horror in his eyes. Thomas broke in--"No fear. My father says the Fön melts too gently for that work, and he knows its ways better than any man in the valley. He was talking about it to Lenz just now," went on Thomas, who took his importance in the village very much from the background of old Wilhelm's great age.

"That is true," Christian answered, "yet I cannot feel at rest about it."

"My father is sure to be right," said Thomas, obstinately.

Just then, his youngest child, a goldenhaired, round-face little girl, escaped from her mother, and came running to him, stretching out her little hands, half-crying, half-triumphant in her struggle with the hurricane. He lifted her in his arms, held her tight, and wrapped his coat round her. So the two remained. Her head against his breast, his arms clasping her.

"Let us go and give a look at the stream," said Christian.

"I must go to the church, where my flock want some words of comfort," said the priest.

The women followed him, climbing the little green knoll on which the church stood; the two men walked on slowly some twenty yards westward, until they could command a view of the little brook as it came tumbling down from stone to stone. They could see it through the storm-tossed branches of the trees, on its

way from the heights far above where they stood, then it was hid from them again, reappearing just above Wittwe Rothler's white cottage. There was a substantial little bridge close to the men, where people used sometimes to stand and watch the clear water, with its glittering limpid depths. Now the little torrent flung itself passionately along, yellow and swollen, sweeping with it bits of wood, poor whipped branches caught from its banks.

"It is no higher than I have seen it twenty times," said Thomas, with a triumphant confidence in old Wilhelm's experience. He had little Marie's soft golden head pressed closely against him, and was holding her tenderly.

"I believe it is all safe," Christian said, turning away; and then with a sudden shout of horror, and a clutch at Thomas's arm—“ Ah, dear heaven," he cried, "look -look!"

For from the height where, on peaceful summer days, they could see the little innocent stream dancing downwards, a vast body of yellow water was coming, leaping, raging, spreading over the rocks, hurling great trees before it, with a roar before which the Fön sank into insignificance. Swift and terrible this new enemy rushed upon the unconscious village; for a moment its awful approach stunned Christian, then with a cry from the very depths of his heart he sprang to meet it-it was like a horrible nightmare: he ran, yet he did not seem to move, his arms were stretched out, "Else! heart's beloved!" he cried in agony. There was the farm, he did not see it, he saw only the cottage with its closed quiet windows. Quiet? ah!-the roar was in his ears-upon him: he saw the walls rock, gape, fall-one moment, and the awful enemy had him in his grasp, and was whirling him along unconscious, inert.

In the little dim church were the Curé and his small congregation, almost all the women, a number of children, and a few old men. The Curé, who had just entered, was kneeling in prayer, the women were huddled together in little groups; many had been there all night, others had now come in; one girl among these latter knelt a little apart, her face buried in her hands. Suddenly it seemed as if the noise and fury outside increased tenfold; with it came the rush of water, and a shrill, terrible shriek, piercing the dull roar and the

hearts of the listeners. The women started from their knees to the door; the Curé, who was there as soon as they, was the first to open it, standing so as to keep back the eager, terrified group. But they saw. "Ah, heaven," cried out old Maria Plater, "we are in the lake!"

Some fell on their knees; others, shrieking wildly, "Fritz!" "Thomas!" "Mother!" names at that moment dearer than life, tried to rush out into the flood. It was all the priest could do to hold the door against them, and to force it back and bolt it. For, in spite of the church standing on its little hill, the yellow turbid water was there at his feet, and, as the door opened rushed in a little stream into the building. The women broke out into an agonized wail; Lisa Stürm dragged herself on her knees to the Curé: "Let me go, let me go," she sobbed; " I have Thomas out there," and then, looking round her wildly, "Ah, and my little Marie too!"

Yes, poor mother. With her head on her father's breast.

Then a young girl pressed up against him frantically.

"I must be let out," she cried, despe rately trying the lock. "I must, I must. I am Else Rothler, and my poor mother is ill in her bed. I only came for one minute, because she would not rest unless I did. I hear her crying to me, 'Else, Else!' Oh, your reverence, you were always good to me-let me out!"

What could the poor priest do? The terrible pathos of these beseeching voices pierced his heart like a knife. He did the best he could. There, by the door, under which the little yellow stream of water was gurgling, he knelt down.

"My children," he said, in a voice of unutterable compassion, "there is One who once stilled the hungry waves into a great calm. Let us pray to him."

What a prayer! But it calmed them, as he expected: those who had been frantic now only wept and moaned softly, Lisa Stürm saying over and over again, under her breath," My little Marie! My little Marie !"

It was like the vox humana after the storm, only this was a terrible heart-thrilling voice, full of discords and carrying up of sad burdens. Nevertheless, it went upwards, and so into the perfect harmony which can resolve it all. The Curé ventured to go into the vestry, and bring

matting to lay under the door. Then he stationed two or three old men there, and himself went up into the tower to look out from its little windows. Over his head the wind had torn down the golden star which crowned the little quaint red spire, and made a gaping rent in the wood-work. Otherwise there was no great damage, nothing to prevent his going up and looking out. But the sight made him fall on his knees again.

"Oh, my God!" he cried, clasping his hands, "spare this poor people."

For it seemed to him as if it was all one sheet of water upon which he gazed-lake and land with no longer a boundary between them. The Fön had suddenly moderated, as if its works were finished; the hot sun shone overhead; the mountains, unmoved by the din and turmoil beneath, lay with the majestic light of heaven upon their faces; but here, in this little nest of homes, where but a short time ago it had seemed all sweet plentiful peace, what a contrast! No green meadows were left; here and there a little hillock just raised its crest above the yellow muddy waters; a few trees remained to show where orchards had smiled; half-a-dozen houses were, like the church itself, surrounded but not destroyed; everywhere else were gaunt wooden ribs rising out of the water, solitary gables, posts, bits of roofs, perhaps a broken balcony hanging to the side; all round a terrible desolation, a floating waste of wood, trees, dead animals-what else? Everything was invested with a horrible nameless dread.

The flood was not rising. It came towards them in waves, and was at least ten feet deep below the church; but, whether a large outlet had been forced into the lake, or from some other reason, it did not appear to grow higher.

"If only I could get out!" sighed the Curé.

Then he strained his eyes again to discover some living creature, and suddenly heard Else's voice behind him,-"I see men working behind the Strüms' house," she cried, sharply.

It was true. The distance was too great to distinguish clearly, but there were figures in the water, hammering as it seemed with great mattocks. This little reaction of human life in the midst of all the desolation brought the Curé his first touch of warm hope; he began to think of the

individual claims which horror had swallowed up. Action was the best medicine for such poor smitten souls.

"Do not let us despair, my child," he said. "We see with our own eyes that some are spared to us; the lake will become quiet now the Fön moderates itself, and help will be sent. Let us go down to those poor women and cheer them."

"But my mother was in her bed," Else answered, with a bitter cry, which rung his heart.

She did not resist, however, but followed him down the little dark worn staircase. The Curé went from group to group, comforting, praying, hoping for these poor desolate women, whose husbands and sons were somewhere out in that frightful waste of waters. They arranged chairs, cushions, what they could, so as to form rude couches for any who might by-and-by be brought there. This gave occupation for a time; then the children became hungry and cried, and some of the mothers forgot their trouble in soothing them. Generally one or two of the old men were up in the tower, climbing the steps painfully, and straining their poor dim eyes over the muddy waters. It was like the ark, as one said, only they had not their dove to let fly. Nevertheless, they were not without their little messages of hope; fluttering things hung from the windows of the few remaining houses; the waves of the lake, though they still heaved and sobbed after their passionate outbreak, and were lifted high above their usual level, gradually subsided into more peaceful movement; the sun shone as though there were no sorrow in the world. This time it was the Curé who had to restrain himself.

"I can swim," he said, flinging open the door, from which the waters had just sunk a little. There they stood in the full warm sunlight, the women all pressing, sobbing, waving, and calling at once. They were on the hill of deliverance; but, alas, deliverance too often means separation. "I can swim," said the priest. "I believe I could reach that house."

Then one of the old men cried out to them from the tower-windows, in a feeble, cracked voice of exultation,-"A boat is coming! We see it.”

Despair changed to excitement, and the women clung about the Curé, asking him whether he did not indeed believe

their husbands to be among that group whom they had seen at work. One or two asked no questions-they were too sick at heart. Else was of the number. Her mother was dead; in all human probability, Christian too. What was left to her-to her who but a few days before had been so rich in affection that she had thrown it from her? She could not cry: she longed for the luxury of such tears as those of Anna Lenz, who wept more freely than any one. She could not even watch the boat on which so many hopes centred, and of which every movement was proclaimed by eager women. "It draws nearer!"

knew. Some of the wives became almost frantic with excitement, others broke into piteous moaning; it appeared afterwards to the Curé as if that time of waiting had been the worst of all. But when the moment he dreaded for them arrived, and the boat was seen making its way towards the church-heavily laden-there was a reaction. The women clutched each other's dresses and were silent. Old Wilhelm Stürm, who had come out into sunshine and lit his pipe, held his daughter-in-law's hand in his, and patted it feebly while he smoked. Else was inside the little dark church, with the poor mother whom the priest had carried

There is no

The despairing cry rang across the water, the other women looked at this one almost reproachfully-were not their dear ones there as well? She cried her son's name again and again until she sank down exhausted, and the Curé lifting her in his strong arms carried her into the church. When he came back the boat was out of sight; breathless silence reigned; the boatmen were evidently trying to effect a landing above the poor submerged village, higher up than the church, so that the first assurance they had of their success was seeing them, after what appeared an endless waiting, row slowly by over what, but a few hours ago, had been a smiling land of flowers. Noticing the figures at the church-door, they shouted

"Are you all well there?"

"All well," answered the Curé; "for the love of heaven lose no time."

But there were hindrances to their progress, the hindrances of overthrown houses, of great floating things beating about helplessly, of drifting poles, lumbering chests; here and there great boughs sticking up in the mud, with smaller débris entangled among them; broken crockery, bedding, sometimes a bundle of clothes, round which they rowed curiously, touching it with the oars to make sure it was what it seemed and no more. As they went further, ruined walls and gables hid them now and then from view; presently they were altogether lost: only a hoarse cry came faintly across the water, whether of welcome or of horror no one

So the boat came on-slowly. Some one stood up in it and waved, and a woman fell down on her knees in the water. "It is Walther, my Walther! " she cried, sobbing and laughing at once. "I see Fritz Plater," said another. "Frau Plater, your Fritz has come," she called back into the church, without taking her eyes from the boat.

Lisa Stürm said humbly, with a quiver in her voice which went to the Cure's heart: "Will your reverence be good enough to tell me the moment you see our little Marie. My eyes are not what they were, and the child is such a little thing," and then she broke off and looked at him wistfully.

"Thomas is not there," said Old Wilhelm, shading his eyes with his hand, and shaking his head.

"I think he would not come in the first boat," she answered in the same pleading tone; "but the child--she is so little."

The priest took her hand, greatly touched. "Lisa," he said very quietly, "sometimes our Father takes His little children from our arms unto his."

For he had seen that little Marie was not in the boat.

The boat rowed up; women rushed into the water and dragged it in with cries of joy. Who were there? Karl, Franz, Walther, Fritz Plater, Heinrich Lenz the innkeeper, with his shoulder dislocated, two women, and two dark figures lying at the bottom of the boat. All the men were more or less hurt; all looked solemn and awe-stricken. In the midst of a torrent of questionings they kissed wives or mothers without any outbreak of joy.

Heinrich Lenz, who had not known certainly that his family were safe, tottered with them into the church; the Curé and the others went to lift out the dark figures. "Jammed in some woodwork," said Franz briefly.

Johann Schmitt was taken out firstwhite, motionless, with sodden clothes. His wife was away at the Sennen Alps.

"He is dead," some one said, in a hushed voice, and no person contradicted it; but they carried their sad burden into the church, and the priest directed them how to use certain simple remedies. As he went back to the boat he met the second little procession-the second heavy, silent burden, more ghastly than the last, from a deep, cruel cut across the head.

"Who is it?" asked the priest, who could not recognize the face.

"Christian Amrhein," said Fritz, to whom his mother was clinging rapturously. And then the Curé saw that Else was at the head. She had run out from the church and was in the boat before any one could stop her, kissing the white, stained face in passionate silence, and as she would let no one take her place, the men had passed a coat under his shoulders, and carried him so, Else holding his head. They all loved Christian and were very tender with him, but they shook their heads in answer to the Curé's questioning look. When they laid him down gently, a whisper went round, and the good priest tried to draw the girl away, but she lifted her head and looked at them all resolutely.

"He is not dead," she said. "My mother is dead, I know, but God has given me back Christian."

Was it so, indeed?

They cut his hair and bound up the gaping wound. The Curé made a fire at which to dry the men's wet clothes, and then, while the boat was gone to fetch another load, there came a trying time of inaction. Never before had the little homely church, standing on its green knoll overlooking the lake, sheltered such strange groups. The villagers came up there to pray, to bring their babies, or their dead-their joys or their sorrows of every-day life; but now there was a restless expectation, low sobs and murmurs of pain went up; the shadow of a great tragedy brooded over the place. Outside it was no less strange, the Curé thought. The yellow flood poured over into the lake

below, the sun smiled upon the calm upturned faces of the mountains, upon the ruined houses, upon the little graves just beginning to show themselves above the water. Most of the women had been assured of the safety of their dear ones, and sat outside the church in the warm glow, talking with the others who had escaped, eating the food which these had brought, as yet too glad and thankful to be much cast down with thinking of their losses.

"It is a good thing it should have come now, when the cattle are all at the pas tures," said Frau Plater.

"There will be a subscription for us in the town," said another.

"Heinrich will be the worst loser of all," grumbled old Gretchen Lenz. "He had fitted up a beautiful salon in the inn; there would have been visitors this year. The chairs cost so much—_____"

So they talked on with the rebound that sometimes seems heartless in these simple natures; which, after all, perhaps only speak without the disguise in which we veil our thoughts. They had returned to chatter and sunshine; those whose hearts were still heavy kept in the church, near the two still figures, one as motionless as the other. Lisa Stürm knelt by poor friendless Johann. "Why does not the doctor come?" Else asked once, looking up as if she had forgotten.

When the boat returned, there were more joyful greetings, more questions or sick anguish, more talk about what had or had not been saved. Wittwe Rothler's cottage was gone, some one said-swept away utterly. So far as they could tell, four men were missing, Thomas Stürm among them; then there was little Marie, and Else's mother, and the two lying within the church; and, when the heavy tale was told, it was, after all, only a wonder that so many had been saved from that terrible death. The men gathered round the priest, and went in and knelt down reverently to offer their simple thanksgiving; afterwards he spoke of the others whose fate was as yet uncertain, and many of the women, who had been most full of joy, broke into sobbing again, looking round on Else, on whose fair hair the sun was shining, as she knelt by Christian. She was unconscious alike of their pity and their forgetfulness, unconscious, I think, of the Curé's prayer; her eyes