There was no use to scream, no one could have heard her.  The storm raved on; Kate clung to her tree, with each flash of lightning trying to see the dam.  At last she saw that it was not all gone.  She was not much concerned about herself.  She knew the tree would hold.  Eagerly she strained her eyes toward the dam.  She could feel the water dropping lower, while the roar subsided to a wild rush, and with flashes of lightning she could see what she thought was at least half of the dam holding firm.  By that time Kate began to chill.  She wrapped her arms around the tree, and pressing her cheek against the rough bark, she cried as hard as she could and did not care.  God would not hear; the neighbours could not.  She shook and cried until she was worn out.  By that time the water was only a muddy flow around her ankles; if she had a light she could wade back to the bridge and reach home.  But if she missed the bridge and went into the ravine, the current would be too strong for her.  She held with one arm and tried to wipe her face with the other hand.  “What a fool to cry!” she said.  “As if there were any more water needed here!”

Then she saw a light in the house, and the figures of the children, carrying it from room to room, so she knew that one of them had awakened for a drink, or with the storm, and they had missed her.  Then she could see them at the front door, Adam’s sturdy feet planted widely apart, bracing him, as he held up the lamp which flickered in the wind.  Then she could hear his voice shouting:  “Mother!” Instantly Kate answered.  Then she was sorry she had, for both of them began to scream wildly.  There was a second of that, then even the children realized its futility.

“She is out there in the water, we got to get her,” said Adam.  “We got to do it!”

He started with the light held high.  The wind blew it out.  They had to go back to relight it.  Kate knew they would burn their fingers, and she prayed they would not set the house on fire.  When the light showed again, at the top of her lungs she screamed:  “Adam, set the broom on fire and carry it to the end of the bridge; the water isn’t deep enough to hurt you.”  She tried twice, then she saw him give Polly the lamp, and run down the hall.  He came back in an instant with the broom.  Polly held the lamp high, Adam went down the walk to the gate and started up the sidewalk.  “He’s using his head,” said Kate to the tree.  “He’s going to wait until he reaches the bridge to start his light, so it will last longer.  That is Bates, anyway.  Thank God!”

Adam scratched several matches before he got the broom well ignited, then he held it high, and by its light found the end of the bridge.  Kate called to him to stop and plunging and splashing through mud and water, she reached the bridge before the broom burned out.  There she clung to the railing she had insisted upon, and felt her way across to the boy.  His thin cotton night shirt was plastered to his sturdy little body.  As she touched him Kate lifted him in her arms, and almost hugged the life from him.