Two or three spades were soon plying busily, to make the breach a little wider, while men ran to bring clay and stones from one of the condemned cottages.  Suddenly arose a great cry, and the crowd scattered in all directions.  The wall of defense at the corner of the butcher’s shop had given away, and a torrent 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 rebellious spirit murmured:  it was hard that he should have evil for good! that his endeavors for his people should be the loss of his child!