Next morning Lane got up at the usual hour and went outdoors, but returned almost immediately.

“The river is rising fast.  Listen.  Hear that roar.  There’s a regular old Niagara just below.”

“I imagined that roar was the wind.”

“The water has come up three feet since daylight.  I guess I’ll go down now and pull in some driftwood.”

“Oh, Daren!  Don’t be so adventurous.  When the river is high there’s a dangerous rapid below.”

“You’re right about that.  But I won’t take any risks.  I can easily manage the boat, and I’ll be careful.”

The following three days it rained incessantly.  Outside, on the gravel walks, there was a ceaseless drip, drip, drip.

Friday evening the rain ceased, the murky clouds cleared away and for a few moments a rainbow mingled its changing hues with the ruddy glow of the setting sun.  The next day dawned bright and dear.

Lane was indeed grateful for a change.  Mel had been unaccountably depressed during those gloomy days.  And it worried him that this morning she did not appear her usual self.

“Mel, are you well?” he asked.

“Yes, I am perfectly well,” she replied.  “I couldn’t sleep much last night on account of that roar.”

“Don’t wonder.  This flood will be the greatest ever known in Middleville.”

“Yes, and that makes more suffering for the poor.”

“There are already many homeless.  It’s fortunate our cottage is situated on this high bank.  Just look!  I declare, jostling logs and whirling drifts!  There’s a pen of some kind with an object upon it.”

“It’s a pig.  Oh! poor piggy!” said Mel, compassionately.

A hundred yards out in the rushing yellow current a small house or shed drifted swiftly down stream.  Upon it stood a pig.  The animal seemed to be stolidly contemplating the turbid flood as if unaware of its danger.

Here the river was half a mile wide, and full of trees, stumps, fences, bridges, sheds—­all kinds of drifts.  Just below the cottage the river narrowed between two rocky cliffs and roared madly over reefs and rocks which at a low stage of water furnished a playground for children.  But now that space was terrible to look upon and the dull roar, with a hollow boom at intervals, was dreadful to hear.

“Daren—­I—­I’ve kept something from you,” said Mel, nervously.  “I should have told you yesterday.”

“What?” interrupted Lane, sharply.

“It’s this.  It’s about poor Blair....  He—­he’s dead!”

Lane stared at her white face as if it were that of a ghost.

“Blair!  You should have told me.  I must go to see him.”

It was not a long ride from the terminus of the car line to where the Maynards lived, yet measured by Lane’s growing distress of mind it seemed a never-ending journey.

He breathed a deep breath of relief when he got off the car, and when the Maynard homestead loomed up dark and silent, he hung back slightly.  A maid admitted Lane, and informed him that Mr. Maynard was ill and Mrs. Maynard would not see any one.  Margaret was not at home.  The maid led Lane across the hall into the drawing-room and left him alone.