"Then we are all right," cried Manners, heartily.

"Yes, we are all right," said Mr Willows, smiling and holding out his hand; "and this is nice and neighbourly of you, a stranger, Mr Manners, to speak like this."

"Neighbourly?" said Manners, colouring through his well-tanned skin. "Oh, I don't know about that. Only, you see, coming down year after year, and seeing so much of the boys, one seems to know you all so well."

"Exactly," said the Vicar, smiling; "Willows is quite right; it is neighbourly, or we will say brotherly, if you like."

"No, no, no!" cried the artist. "Here, I'll tell you what to say— nothing. But I am heartily glad there is no serious mischief done."

"None at all," said Willows. "Rather good. The big pool was getting very low. Now we shall be all right for months. The water's falling fast, and in half an hour I shall have the waste water-sluices closed, and by mid-day the stream will be running much as usual."

"That's right," cried Manners. "I say, boys; lucky we had our fishing last night. Why, every trout will have been washed down-stream and out to sea."

"Not one," cried Will. "Will they, father?"

"No, my boy; I don't suppose they will; they'll have got into the eddies and backwaters, driven down a good deal here and there; but their natural habit is to make their way higher and higher up to the shallows in search of food. There, Mr Manners, I don't think that you'll miss any of your sport. My experience is that places which swarm with trout one day are empty the next, and vacant spots where you have thrown a fly in vain will another time give you a fish at nearly every cast."

"Well," said Manners, "as I have had my fright for nothing, my nature's beginning to assert itself, and the main question now with me is breakfast. Now, boys, will you come and join me? I can't smell them, but I can almost venture to say for certain that Mrs Drinkwater is frying trout. What do you say?"

"No, thank you, Mr Manners," replied Will; "my father will want me, perhaps, to give orders to the men; but Josh has got to pass the cottage."

"Of course," cried Manners; "and you might honour me too, Mr Carlile."

"Thanks, no," said the Vicar. "Josh can stay, and he will be glad. I'll go on, for they would be waiting breakfast at home."

The artist gave a tug at a thick chain, and dragged out a heavy, old-fashioned, gold watch.

"Five o'clock," he cried. "We should be done by six. Why, you'd be quite ready for a second breakfast, sir, by eight or nine."

"Do come, father."

"Very well," said the Vicar, smiling; and the artist carried them off, leaving Willows with his son to walk slowly on to the broad dam where the foam-covered water brimmed the stones, as if only wanting the impulse of a puff of wind to sweep over the top.

They stopped about the middle, to stand looking up the vale.

"I say, father, do you feel that?" cried Will.

"What?—the quivering sensation, my boy?"

"Yes; it is just as if the water was shaking the stones all loose."

"Yes, but it is only the vibration caused by the water rushing through the open sluices on either side; they are open as wide as they will go, and have just been large enough to do their work well and keep the flood down. I fully expected to find it foaming over the top. What are you looking at?"

"Don't take any notice, father. I'm going to look away. Just turn your eyes quietly up to the old stone bench on the top there by the lookout."

There was a pause of a moment or two, during which the mill-owner stooped to pick up a piece of sodden, dead wood, to throw it outward into the current tearing through one of the open sluices. Then turning right away, he said, quietly—

"Yes, there's someone's face looking over from the back. Who can it be?"

"Can't you see, father?"

"No; unless it's James."

"It is, father; I saw his face just now quite clear. What does he want there? Does he want to speak to you about coming back?"

"Hardly so soon as this, my boy," said Will's father, rather sadly. "Brought here by curiosity, I suppose, like our other friends—a good sign, Will. He takes an interest in the old mill, after all."



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE ALARM.

A fortnight had glided by. The dam was kept more than full by hours of stormy weather high up in the hills many miles away; but the stream had resumed its gentle course, the trout were back in their old haunts, Manners had finished one of his landscapes and begun another, and one soft, sweet, very early autumn evening three busy pairs of hands where at work at the round table plainly visible in the light cast by Mrs Drinkwater's shaded lamp.

"No," said Will, who was holding something in a pair of pliers in his left hand, and winding a thread of silk brought up from the mill round it with his right, "he hasn't been near us yet. Josh and I keep running against him in the woods, or up one of the river paths; but, as soon as he sees us, he turns his back and goes in among the trees."

"Shies at us," interpolated Josh.

"Yes," said Will, softly, as he wound away, his face screwed up and looking intent to a degree. "Shies! I say, Mr Manners, you, living here, see him every day, of course?"

"No, I don't," said the artist. "He has his breakfast before I'm down, and goes off and doesn't come back till after dark. The missus, poor soul, told me yesterday—crying away like your old mill-wheel—that he takes a bit of bread and cheese with him and goes off to sit and mope somewhere in the woods. He never hardly speaks to her. She said, poor thing, that she'd give anything to see him back at his regular work."

"Ha!" cried Will, holding up the something proudly upon which he had been at work. "Now, I call that something like a coachman."

"Not a bit," said Josh. "How can a little hook, a thread of gut, a few small feathers, and some dubbing, be like a coachman?"

"Get out, Clevershakes! What an old chop-logic you are! I didn't christen that kind of artificial fly a coachman; but it's a well-made one, isn't it, Mr Manners?"

"Well, yes, very nicely made; but it's not a London maker's idea of a jarvey."

"No," said Will, "but it's the sort that will catch the fish. You'd never guess whose make that is."

"Why, it's yours, my lad."

"Yes; but you don't know who taught me."

"Not I; but I should like you to make me half a dozen more."

"All right; I will; a dozen, if you like. They suit our waters fine. That's old Boil O's pattern. He taught me; he used to say that the proper way to make a fly was to watch the real one first, and make it as near as you could like that—not take a copy from somebody's book."

"Quite right," said the artist; "old Boil O's a philosopher."

"I wish he was a sensible man instead," said Will. "I've been thinking, Mr Manners, that as you live here and know him so well—"

"That I don't," cried the artist. "I never knew less of any man in my life."

"Well, never mind that; you live here, and I think it would be very nice if you'd get hold of him and talk sensibly, like you can."

"Thank you for the compliment, my young judge."

"I say, don't poke fun, Mr Manners; I want to talk seriously."

"That's right; I like to hear you sometimes, my young joker. I wouldn't give a sou for a fellow who was all fun."

"Well, look here, Mr Manners; I want you to let him see what a jolly old stupid he is making of himself. Of course father can't come and ask him to return to work, but I know that dad would shake hands with him at once, and be as pleased as Punch."

"Well," said the artist, dryly, "I can't quite see in my own mind your grave and reverend parent looking as pleased as Punch; it doesn't seem quite in his way."

"Of course not; but you know what I mean."

"Well, I guess at it, boy; and you mean what is quite right. I should be very glad to do anything for either of you, and to put an end to a melancholy state of affairs; but look here, my dear boy, I don't think that I should be doing right as an outsider, such a bird of passage as I am, to say more to Drinkwater than I have already done. He knows what I think; but I want to be friends with everybody here, and I feel sure that by interfering further I should be turning ray landlord into an enemy. I am obliged to say 'no.' And now, if you please, we'll go on with our fly-making, and get our tackle ready for another turn at the trout."

"Well, I am very sorry," said Will, sadly, "and—"

"Whatever's that?" cried Josh, springing to his feet and staring wildly through the open window.

"Eh? Whatever's what?" said the artist, slowly, looking in the same direction. "Why, as Pat would say, it isn't to-morrow morning, and the sun never rises in the west, or he'd be getting up now. Why, by all that's wonderful, it's—"

"Fire! Fire!" shouted Will, wildly.

"Yes," cried Josh, in a husky voice, "and it's at the mill."



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

GOOD SERVANT—BAD MASTER.

There was no stopping to put away artificial fly material. Hat and caps were snatched up, and the next minute all three were running as fast as the rugged stones and the dangerous nature of the path would allow, downward towards the mill, their faces suffused by the warm glow which rose from out of the valley beyond the trees.

For a few moments the pat, pat of the runners' feet, and the rattle and rush of the stones they dislodged were the only sounds to be heard. Then came a loud shout from below, a confused murmur of voices, the wild shriek of a woman, followed by the hoarse voice of a man, shouting "Fire! Fire!" the last time to be drowned by the loud clang of the mill's big bell, whose tongue seemed to be giving its utterances in a wild, hysterical way, as rope and wheel were set in motion by a pair of lusty arms.

There were a couple more zigzags to descend, which never had seemed so long to Will before, and meanwhile the buzz of voices, mingled with shouted orders, grew louder and more confused.

"Shall we never get there?" panted Will.

"Take it coolly, my boy," cried the artist.

"Steady! Cool! Steady!" snapped out Will. "Who can be cool at a time like this?"

"You," said Manners, "and you must. We don't want to get there pumped out and useless in an emergency. We want to help."

"Ha!" panted Josh, as if satisfied with their friend's utterance, and feeling that it exactly expressed his feelings.

"Oh, the poor old mill!" cried Will, as the next minute they came full in sight of the long wooden range of buildings, up one end of which, as if striving to reach the bell turret, great tongues of fire were gliding steadily in a ruddy series, licking at board and beam as they pursued their way.

Just then a thought struck Will, and he breathlessly shouted—

"The engine! The engine! Who says my father was foolish now?"

"I say he was a Solomon," cried Manners. "Hurrah, boys! Let's have the engine out! Plenty of water! Take it coolly; we'll soon have her going now."

He had hardly finished speaking when John Willows' voice rose loudly above the babble of the little crowd, giving orders; and, as the boys rushed up with their friend, an iron bar was heard to rattle, two doors were flung back, and the grinding and crushing sound of wheels over gravel followed, as the little engine was run out with a hearty cheer; the excited men who took the place of horses and pushed wherever they could find a place for their hands, running the machine along the mill front right up towards where the fire was blazing fast, and bringing to it a current of air as it rose, which made the flames burn moment by moment more fiercely, as they obtained a greater hold.

"No, no, no!" yelled Will. "You're wrong, you're wrong, you're wrong! Back with her at once!"

"Nay, it's all right, boys," cried one of the men; "it's all right; go on!"

"It isn't," shouted Will. "Back with her close to the dam!"

"Nay," cried the same voice; "the fire's here."

"I know that!" shouted Will, rushing at him and thrusting him aside. "Ah, here's father! Give orders, father; it must be close to the water. The suction-pipe is short."

"Yes, of course," cried Willows. "You're wrong, men. Back with her to the pool there below the wheel! Mr Manners, take the lead, please, over getting out and connecting the hose. Will, see to the suction-pipe, and that its rose is well clear of the gravel. Get to work as soon as you can. Josh, my boy, follow and help me. I'm afraid the place is doomed, Mr Manners; I must go to the office and get out the safe and books."

"Right, sir; we will do our best," cried the artist. "How did it occur?"

"Goodness only knows," was the reply, and each hurried to his appointed task.

They worked well, but, as a matter of course, there was little discipline; every worker thought he knew best, gave his opinions, and hindered the progress of the rest; but at last the engine was in the most favourable place for operating, the suction-pipe attached and hanging down in a deep, dark hole, scooped lower year after year by tons of the water falling from the wheel; while forward, under the artist's guidance, length after length of the hose had been unrolled and the gun-metal screws fitted together till it stretched out far in the glowing light towards the burning timbers. Here, as near as it was safe for man to go, the artist stood in shirt and trousers, sleeves rolled up over his massive arms, bending down, a picturesque object, like some gladiator fitting his weapon before doing battle with the fiery monster wreathing upwards above his head, as he screwed on the glistening copper branch.

"Ready!" he roared, as Will's father and Josh came out of the open office door laden with heavy ledgers.

"All right!" shouted Will. "Now, boys, all together—pump!"

Cling, clang! Cling, clang! Cling clang! Three times over, the handles rose and fell with a strange, weird sound, and then, as if moved by one impulse, the workers stopped, and, sounding strangely incongruous, a man whose voice was blurred by the north-west country burr shouted—

"Why, t'owd poomp wean't soock!"

"Nay," cried another; "I never had no faith in t'owd mawkin of a thing. She's only fit to boon the roads."

"What's the matter?" shouted Manners.

"I don't know," cried Will, despondently; "it won't go."

"Are the pipes screwed on right?" said Manners.

"Yes."

"Is your end down in the water?"

"Yes; three or four feet."

"We must have got something screwed on upside down."

"No," said Will, firmly; "it's all right, just as old Boil O put it together when it was done."

"But it isn't all right," cried Manners; "the suckers or something must have been left out."

"Oh, why didn't we try it? Why didn't we try it when it was done?" groaned Will. "I did want to, but Boil O said there was no time for me to be playing my games."

At that moment Mr Willows ran up.

"Well," he cried, "why don't you pump?"

"We did, father, but it won't go."

"Then don't waste time. Here, Manners!"

"Catch hold," shouted the artist, thrusting the copper branch into the nearest man hands and running up.

"Yes!" he said.

"Ladders and buckets," continued Mr Willows.

"Right, and form a double line. I say," he whispered; "here's treachery."

"I fear so; I fear so," said Willows, in the same tone. "It's revenge, and the engine has been purposely left out of gear. No," he cried, as if in agony, his words having given him intense pain; "I won't believe a man could be so base."

There was the scuffling rush of feet just then, and the object of his thoughts, wild and weird-looking from his dwarfish aspect, glistening head, and staring eyes, dashed up.

"Here, fools! Idiots! Are you going to let the poor old mill burn down?"

"Hurrah!" shouted Will; "here's Boil O! Here, old fellow, what is there wrong? I can't get the thing to go."

"Stand aside!" cried the man, fiercely; and the next moment he was down on his knees, rapidly examining the connections, valve, piston, and rod. "Yah!" he roared, savagely. "The pins are left out here."

Clang went a box, as he threw up a lid in the front, snatched out a screw hammer and a copper pin, and then, tap, tap, tap, some half-dozen sharply given blows were heard, the hammer was thrown with a crash back into the box, and the man's hoarse, harsh voice rose in an angry roar.

"Now, then, put your backs into it! Pump!"

Clink, clank! Clink, clank! Clink, clonk! Clink, clunk!

There was a whistling sound as the water forced the wind out of the leather tubes, rushed along spurting in fine threads out of a score of tiny holes, and from the joints where they were not tightly screwed up, and then, just as, seeing what was about to happen, Manners rushed forward and grasped the copper branch, a fountain as of golden rain darted out of the glistening branch, rose higher and higher, making the flames hiss and steam, and a roar of triumph rose above the thudding, steady clank of the engine, now doing well its work, while the north-country man who had spoken jeeringly before shouted lustily—

"Three cheers, boys, for good old Boil O!"



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

IT'S A MYSTERY.

There was a desperate fight now for about a quarter of an hour between man's two best slaves—fire and water; and John Willows looked anxiously on, asking himself the question, which was to win. At the end of the above-mentioned time, in spite of the inflammable nature of the old building, the matter was no longer in doubt. The men worked away nobly at the clanging pumps, and every now and then in her eager excitement, some sturdy, strong-armed woman made a run forward to thrust husband or brother aside and take his place, working with a will, and sending quite a hissing deluge to flood the untouched parts of the roof, and gradually fight back the flames foot by foot, till their farther progress was stopped, and the rest was easy.

All through the fight, Manners held his post right in the forefront, his face shining in the golden glow as he distributed the water. Will and Josh kept close up after the books had been saved, always ready to help, and bringing refreshment, while Drinkwater raged about like some lunatic, thrusting the men here and there, urging them on to pump faster, and nearly getting himself crushed over and over again, as he dodged about with a small oil-can, seeking to lubricate the old and stiffened parts of the machinery.

It was all to save the mill from destruction, and the master from injury from whom he had cut himself adrift, and there was the result at last. The ruddy light which had illumined the fern-hung sides and curtains of ivy of the great gorge began to fail.

The great, black cloud of smoke which hung over from side to side began to turn from ruddy orange to a dull lead colour, and at last the word was given to cease pumping.

"There's nothing to do now, my lads, but to carry a few buckets inside and look out for sparks," cried Willows. "I thank you all! You've worked grandly, and you have saved our old mill."

"There'll be a big sore place upon it to-morrow, master," said one of the men.

"Nothing but what James Drinkwater and three or four workmen," said Willows, speaking meaningly, "can put right within a month. The machinery at this end seems to be uninjured."

"I hope so," said Manners, "but the lads here and I have given it a tremendous washing where we sent the stream in through yon hole and those broken windows. What about the silk? Will it be spoiled?"

"There was little there to signify, and the loss will be comparatively small. Now then, everyone round to the big office, and let's see what we can do in the way of finding you all something to eat and drink."

There was another burst of cheers, and soon after, while the men and women were partaking of the mill-owner's cheer, he and his friends had been making such examination as the smoke, the darkness, and the water which had flooded the drenched part of the building would allow.

"Terrible damage, Carlile," he said. "Still nothing compared to what might have been. But what has become of Drinkwater? Who saw him last?"

"I think I did, father," cried Will. "He was busy with a lantern down there by the engine, wiping and oiling the different parts. I asked him to come in, but he only grunted and shook his head."

"That's where I found him," chimed in Josh, "when you sent me with a message, father."

"Yes, and I saw him there," said Manners. "My word, how he kept the pumpers up to the mark! The water never failed once. Why, you got quite a bargain in the old engine, Mr Willows, and that fellow did it up splendidly."

"And worked gloriously," cried Will. "I think, father, he felt ashamed of all he had said, and wanted to put matters right."

"I hope so," said Mr Willows; "at any rate I do for my miserable suspicions when the fire broke out."

"Don't worry about that," said the Vicar. "It looked horribly black after his threatenings about revenge. But there, that's all past, and thank Heaven you can congratulate yourself upon the good that has arisen out of to-night's dark work."

"Dark!" said Manners, wiping his black face. "I think we had too much light."

"Not enough to show how that fire broke out," said Mr Willows, gravely. "I cannot understand how it was caused."

"Couldn't be a spark left by one of the flashes of lightning in the storms we have had lately, could it?" said Josh, innocently.

"No," said Will, mockingly; "but it might have been a star tumbled down."

"No, it couldn't!" cried Josh, angrily. "Such stuff! It must have been started somehow."

"Yes, my boy," said the Vicar, smiling; "but it is a mystery for the present."

"Let it rest," said Mr Willows. "I don't concern myself about that now. I have something else on my mind. I shall not rest, Carlile, till I have thanked that man for all he has done, and shaken him by the hand."

"Oh, he'll turn up soon, I daresay," said Manners. "Here, I know! he must have got himself drenched with water."

"Of course!" cried Will. "I saw him lower himself down into the hole to move the suction-pipe."

"That's it," said Manners, "and he's gone up to the cottage to have a change."

"At any rate," said the Vicar, "I feel thankful that the trouble has passed, and I shall be seeing him back at his work to-morrow; eh, Mr Willows?"

"I hope so," was the reply. "Now then, we must have three or four watchers for the rest of the night, and those of you who are wet had better see about a change."

"Well, I'm one," said Manners, "for I feel like a sponge. I'm off to my diggings, but I shall be back in half an hour to join the watch."

"No, no," cried Mr Willows, "you've done enough. I'll see to that."

"Yes, yes," cried the artist; "I want to come back and think out my plan for a new picture of the mill on fire. It'll be a bit of history, don't you see, and I want to get the scene well soaked into my mind."

"It ought to be burned in already," said Will, laughing.

"Perhaps it is," said the artist, merrily; and he hurried away.

So much time had been spent that, to the surprise of all, the early dawn was beginning to show, and as it broadened it displayed the sorry sight of one end of the mill blackened—a very mass of smoking and steaming timbers.

"I say, Josh," said Will, "only look here! If the fire had got a little more hold and the wind had come more strongly down, the flames would have swept everything before them: the mill would have been like a burnt-out bonfire."

"Yes," said Josh; "and the house must have gone too."

"How horrid! But I say, why hasn't old Boil O been back?"

The man had his own reasons. Not only did he not show himself again after his work was done, but when in the course of the morning, impatient at his non-appearance, his employer left the busy scene where a clearance of the ruined part was going on, and walked up to the cottage with the Vicar, it was only to catch a momentary glimpse of the man they sought, as he glided across his garden and made for the woods, utterly avoiding all advances made by those who wished him well; and instead of the breach being closed by his conduct, the wound purified by the fire, his rage against his master and all friendly to the mill seemed to burn more fiercely than ever.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

DOINGS IN THE DALE.

"It's no use to bother," said Josh, when the state of affairs was being canvassed. "Father says there's only one cure for it."

"What's that?" said Will.

"Time."

"I think," said Will, speaking seriously, "that your father, as he's a clergyman, ought to give old Boil O a good talking to."

"What!" cried Josh. "Why, he's been to the cottage nearly every day, trying to get the old man to listen; but it only makes him more wild. Father says that he shall give it up now, and let him come to his senses."

"Yes, I suppose that's best," said Will. "Everybody's been at him. Old Manners says he got him one evening at the bottom of the garden, but, as soon as he began to speak, old Boil O turned upon him so fiercely that he had to cut away."

"Oh, yes, of course, I'm going to believe that!" said Josh. "Manners wouldn't run away from a dozen of him."

"Well," cried Will, "he pretty well startled me when I had a try. I'm not going to do it any more, I can tell you."

"My father's right," said Josh. "It only wants time."

But time went on, and the work-people from the nearest town were hard at work day by day rebuilding and restoring, so that by degrees the traces of the late fire began to disappear, while new woodwork, beams, boards and rafters, bearing ruddy, bright new tiles, gave promise that within another three months the night's mishap would be a memory of the past.

It was autumn—a splendid time for fishing; a better time for the painter, the artist declaring that the tints of the trees and bracken, the glow of the skies, and the lovely mists that floated down from the hills and up from the well-charged falls were more glorious than any he had ever seen before.

His white mushroom, as Will called it, was always visible, and the boys spent much time with him when they were not reading with the Vicar up by the church, for Josh had declared that the message that had come from Worksop was about the jolliest piece of news he had ever heard. Doubtless, the headmaster and his subordinates did not think the same, the news being the breaking out of an exceedingly virulent epidemic of fever, necessitating the closing of the great school about the time when the bulk of the pupils were to return.

Then rumours came that sanitary inspectors had condemned the whole of the arrangements there as being too old-fashioned to be tolerated, and instead of becoming once more a busy hive of study during the autumn term, the whole place had been put in the builders' hands, and rumour said that the school would not reassemble until the spring, even if the builders were got rid of then.

"Well, I don't care," said Will. "I didn't want longer holidays, but it is much nicer reading and doing exercises up at the Vicarage than with old Buzfuz's lexicon over there. I'm learning twice as much, and quite beginning to like Latin now."

"Of course," said Josh, complacently. "My father used to be a famous college don before the Bishop gave him the living here."

"Yes, but he's never been don enough to bring old Boil O back to his senses. He's worse than ever now."

"Bring him back to his senses! I don't believe he's got any senses to bring back," said Josh. "It wants a very clever college don to put something straight that isn't there."

The boys were right about Drinkwater, for the man was more fiercely morose than ever. His efforts to avoid all who knew him, and spend the greater part of his time moping in the woodlands and high up the valley towards the headwaters of the stream, were so much waste of time, for all men and women too, and the children, for the matter of that, avoided him now as one who was ogreish and evil. Master, Vicar, the artist, and the two lads might cast away all idea of his guilt respecting the fire if they liked, but the work-people declared that his was the hand that fired the mill. Nothing would alter that in their stubborn minds, and no one knew better than James Drinkwater that this was so.

Consequently, he nursed up his blind grudge against the little world in which he dwelt, and became what Will called him—a regular wild man of the woods.

But a change was coming. The autumn rains were setting in, the woods were often dripping, the mosses holding the rain like so much sponge, and the shelter of a roof becoming an absolute necessity for the one who had sought it merely of a night.

"Yes," said Manners, one morning, "the cuckoo's gone long ago, the swallows are taking flight, and it is getting time for me to pack up my traps and toddle south."

"Oh, what a pity!" cried Will.

"Humph! Yes, for you. What will you chaps do? No one to play tricks with then."

"Oh, I say, Mr Manners, play fair!" cried Josh. "Why, I'm sure that we've behaved beautifully lately."

"Very," cried the artist. "Why, you young dogs, I've watched you! You've both been sitting on mischief eggs for weeks. It isn't your fault that they didn't hatch."

"Doing what?" cried Josh.

"Well, trying to scheme some new prank. Only you've used up all your stuff, and couldn't think one out."

The boys exchanged glances, and there was a peculiar twinkle in their eyes, a look that the artist interpreted, and knew that he had judged aright.

"But you'll be down again in the spring, Mr Manners?" cried Will.

"I hope so, my lad. I've grown to look upon Beldale as my second home. I say, you'll come and help me pack my canvases?"

"Of course! Are you going to stick up your toadstool to-day?"

"No; it's going to rain again. It has been raining in the night up in the hills."

"Yes," said Josh; "the big fall is coming down with a regular roar."

"But what about the dam?" said the artist.

"Full, as it ought to be; they're going to open the upper sluice."

"When?" said Manners.

"This afternoon," cried Will.

"Ah, I'll come and see it done. And about my canvases: I must have some pieces of wood to nail round and hold them together."

"As you did last time?" said Will. "Well, old Boil O did that. Won't you let him do it again?"

"I've been after him twice, and whenever I spoke he turned away. Suppose I come down to the mill workshop. We can cut some strong laths there."

"Of course," said Will; "this afternoon, when we've seen them open the sluice."

"Good," said the artist. "I will be there; but look here, let's carry the canvases down; there are only twelve. Nothing like the present. I'll bring them now."

"You mean, we'll take them now," said Will, correctively.

The matter was arranged by their taking four each.

"Going to take them below to the mill to pack, Mrs Drinkwater," said Manners, as they went down the path.

"Dear, dear, sir," said the woman, sadly; "it seems so early, and it'll be very dull when you're gone."

"Next spring will soon come, Mrs Drinkwater," said Manners, cheerily; and the trio strolled on together, to come, at the angle of the second zig-zag, plump upon Drinkwater, with one arm round a birch trunk, his right hand to his shaggy brow, leaning away from the path as far as he could, as if gazing down at the dam.

"Morning, Drinkwater," cried Manners, cheerily.

The man started violently, stared at the canvases, then at their bearer, and hurried away in amongst the trees.

"Nice cheerful party that to live with, lads," said the artist, laughingly. "Only fancy being his wife!"

"Yes," said Josh; "and now you see if he don't turn worse than ever. I know."

"Know what?" said Will.

"He'll be as disagreeable as possible, because he's not going to nail up the canvases, and lay it all on his poor wife."

"He'd better not let me hear him," said Manners. "Surly brute! Wouldn't do it himself, and now turns nasty. I saw his savage looks! I should just like to shake some of his temper out of him. Takes a lot of your father's physic, Josh, to set him right."

"Time?" cried the boy. "Ah, he'll have to have a stronger dose."



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

MYSTERIOUS SOUNDS.

There was not much to see. The great pool was very full—a great, V-shaped sheet of water, or elongated triangle, whose shortest side was formed by the massive stone dam built across the narrow valley, standing some forty feet high from its base, to keep back the waters, and being naturally, when full, forty feet deep at its lower end.

Mr Willows and two men were at one end of the wall when Manners and the boys climbed on to it that afternoon, to stand in the middle looking up the valley over the long sheet of water to where it dwindled from some fifty yards wide to less than as many feet.

One of the upper sluices was opened, and though the great mill-wheel in its shed far below was going round at its most rapid rate, urged by the stream of water which passed along the chute, a good-sized fall was spurting out by the upper sluice.

These two exits were, however, not enough to keep the water down, so rapid was the flow from the hills to swell the stream, and the water in the great pool still rose. Hence it was that the second sluice was to be opened, and in a few minutes a third rush added its roar to that of the other two. Mr Willows stood watching for a few minutes, till he had satisfied himself by observing the painted marks upon a post that the water had ceased to rise, and then he walked away, leaving the others to chat with the men, who hung back for a few minutes after securing the sluice door, before going down to resume their regular work in the mill.

"Not much of a time for trout fishing, Mr Manners, sir," said one of the men.

"No," was the reply; "it is all over for the season for me."

"Suppose so, sir. Have you young gents been below there to have a look at the eel-box?"

"Eels?" said Manners. "Ah, I like eels."

"There'll be plenty to-night, sir; they'll be well on the move after sundown. I shouldn't be surprised if there was a good take."

"We ought to be there to see," said Will. "The rains will have brought them down. It's rare fun catching the slippery beggars. You'll help, won't you, Mr Manners?"

"Rather a slimy job," was the reply; "but I'll put on an old coat and pair of trousers, and come. What time?"

"About eight o'clock. That'll do," said Will. "Then you can come in to supper afterwards with us."

"Right!" was the reply; and that night, prompt to their time, Josh, who had called at the cottage on his way down, presented himself at the Mill House garden-gate with Manners, both properly equipped for their slippery task, and finding Will awaiting their arrival.

"Come on," he cried; "I thought you didn't mean to come. I hate waiting in the dark."

He led the way through the garden to the lower gate by the mill-yard, and then right along under the buildings to the huge shed built up over the wheel, which was turning rapidly to the hollow roar of the water descending the chute to pass into the many receptacles at the end of the great spokes, before falling with echoing splashes into the square, stone-built basin below.

It was close to the exit here that a portion of the great shed had been devoted to the purpose of an eel-trap, which was most effective in warm, rainy times when the flooded waters were full of washed-out worms such as the fat eels loved, but for which they often had to pay very dear, for it came to pass that they were often carried by the swift waters into the great stone chute. Then, in all probability, their fate was sealed, for they would be borne along to the end, writhing and struggling in vain, only to be carried right over the turning wheel before falling into the great, square, stone opening below, where another rushing chute carried them onward into a stout, iron-barred cage whose bottom and sides were so closely set that only the very small could wriggle through. The larger collected in a writhing cluster just where an iron, cage-like door could be opened, and a basket held to receive the spoil.

But this particular night, in spite of its promise, showed no performance. The little party, lantern bearing, descended a flight of steps, hardly able to make each other hear, so great was the echoing splash going on around, and stopped at the bottom in a dank, dripping, stone chamber, close to the floor of the iron cage.

"How are you going to cook 'em, Mr Manners?" said Will, with his lips close to his companion's ear.

"Some stewed, some spitchcocked, and the rest in a pie."

"Then we're not coming to dine," cried Will, laughing, as he threw the light of the lantern upon the cage, where there was a wet gleam as something slowly glided round.

"Oh, what a shame!" cried Josh. "Why, there's only one!"

"Yes, only one," said Will, "and it isn't worth while to open this nasty, wet, slimy door for him."

"Oh, but there'll be some more," cried Josh; "there's plenty of time. In about an hour there'll be as many as we can carry."

"But we are not going to wait in this dreary hole," said Manners. "I don't enjoy eels when I've got a cold."

"Oh, no," cried Will; "we will go and have a bit of a walk, and come down again."

They drew back from the eel-trap, Will leading the way, and made for a door in the huge shed, where the lantern was carefully extinguished and put on a ledge, before they stepped out into the dark night, the closing of the door behind them shutting in a good deal of the hollow roar, with its whispering echoes. That which they listened to now was more splash, rush and hurry, as the wheel turned at greater than its usual speed, and the overladen dam relieved itself of its contents.

Still there was too much noise for easy converse, and they tramped on, Will with the intention of climbing to one of the narrow paths that led in the direction of the upper stream.

They were just on a level with the top of the stone dam, when Will stopped short. The spot he had chosen for his halt was dark as pitch, for a clump of bushes overhung the way.

"What's the matter?" said Josh, who came next.

"Be quiet," replied Will.

"Anything wrong?" asked the artist, for they blocked his way.

"N-no," replied Will, dubiously; "only thought I heard something."

"Thought you heard something!" said Manners. "There's not much think about it. My ears seem stuffed so full of sounds that I can hardly hear myself speak. The rushing water and its echoes from up above seem to fill the air. What did you think you heard?"

"That's what I don't know," said Will, thoughtfully, with his lips close to the speaker's ear; "and I can't hear it at all now. It was a dull, thumping sort of noise."

"Echo," said Josh. "The wheel's going so much faster round than usual."

"N-n-no," said Will; "it wasn't like that. I wish I could hear it again."

"What for?" said Josh. "What was the matter? Here, I say, which way shall we go? I know: let's go and see if any of the old owls are out beating the ivy for birds."

"There," cried Will, "that's it! You can hear it now! Listen!"

All stood perfectly still for a few moments.

"Water, water everywhere, and far too much to drink," said Manners, spoiling a quotation. "I can't hear anything else."

"Oh, Mr Manners! Why, there it is, quite plain. You can hear it, can't you, Josh?"

"Thumpety, thumpety, thump, thump, thump!" said Josh. "Sounds like somebody beating a bit of carpet indoors. Why, it's only echoes."

"Pooh! What could make echoes like that?"

"The great axle of the wheel worked a little loose in its bearings through the weight of the water."

"Nonsense! Can't be that."

"All right! What is it, then?"

"Don't know, don't care. It's a nocturnal noise, isn't it, Mr Manners?"

"Well, it's a noise," said the artist, "as if someone was hammering with a wooden mallet. I heard it quite plainly just now, and it seemed to come from below there, out of the darkness down at the bottom of the dam."

"Oh, no," cried Josh, "it was from right up yonder, ever so high."

"No, no," said Will; "it seemed to me to come from just opposite where we are standing now."

"Echo," said the artist, laconically.

"Yes," said Will; "carried here and there by the wind."

"Well," said the artist, "the water makes roaring noise enough, without our listening for echoes. Let's go a bit higher where we can see the sky. It's horribly dark down here, but the stars are very bright if we get out of the shadows. What's the matter?" he said sharply, for Will caught his arm.

"There it is again," cried the boy. "Somebody must be hammering and thumping. What can it be?"

"It's what I said," said Josh; "the bearings of the big wheel are a bit loose. Who could be hammering and thumping in the darkness? Wouldn't he have a light?"

"I don't know," said Will; "but if something's got loose, it ought to be seen to."

"But you couldn't do anything in the dark," said Josh. "My word, what a game it would be if the old wheel broke away! What would happen then?"

"Once started, I should say it would go spinning down the valley for miles," said Manners, laughingly. "Just like a Brobdingnagian boy's hoop gone mad."

"Ah, I should like to see that by daylight," cried Josh.

"I shouldn't," said Will, bitterly. "It wouldn't be much fun. There! now, can you hear it? That thumping?"

"Yes, I heard it then," said Manners, "and I don't think that there's any doubt of its being the echo of something giving a thump as the wheel turns. Is it worth while to go and tell old Jack-of-all-trades Drinkwater to come and see if anything's wrong?"

"No," said Josh. "I don't believe he'd come."

"Perhaps it's nothing to mind," said Will, thoughtfully; "only, working machinery is such a ticklish thing. There, I can't hear it now."

They stood listening for quite ten minutes, but the unusual sound was not renewed.

"Perhaps it's somebody in the mill," said Will. "Let's go down and look."

"All right; anything to fill up time," said Manners, "before we get my eels. There's no occasion to go up here."

They descended cautiously through the darkness to the mill-yard, following Will, who made straight for the door leading into the machine-room, the fastening yielding to his hand, for few precautions were used in the shape of bar or bolt in that quiet, retired place; and, as the door swung back, the three stood gazing into the darkness before them, listening and feeling. The whole building seemed to thrill with the vibration caused by the turning wheel, the weight of the water making the entire building quiver as if it were alive.

"Rather weird," said Manners. "I never was here before at such a time. Does the place always throb in this way?"

"When the wheel is going fast," replied Will, "it gently shakes the biggest beams."

"Sounds as if it might shake the place down in time."

"Oh, no," said Will; "it's too solid for that."

"Well," said Josh, "there's nobody doing anything here. If there was, there'd be a light. It was only echoes. Come along."

"But if it was echoes," said Will, "why did they leave off?"

"Not so much water coming down perhaps," suggested Manners. "There, isn't it nearly time to go and see if there are any more eels?"

"Hardly," replied Will, "but some might have come down. It's just as it happens."

"Oh, yes," said Josh. "Sometimes there won't be one in a whole night, and another time there'll be pounds and pounds in half an hour. It all depends upon whether they are on the move."

They made for the lower door again at the bottom of the cage shed, and entered the hollow, dismal place. Will felt for the lantern after closing the door, struck a match, and, to the artist's satisfaction, the rays fell upon several slimy, gleaming objects beyond the bars; and after a good deal of splashing, writhing, and twining themselves in knots, the prisoners were secured in a dripping basket that had been held beneath the opening formed by drawing back the little grating.

"Capital!" cried Manners, eagerly. "Why, there must be half a dozen pounds."

"Nearer a dozen," said Will. "Look out, Josh! Hit that chap over the head, or he'll be out."

Josh struck at the basket-lid, but a big, serpent-like creature had half forced its way through, to be down on the wet stone floor the next moment, making at once for the water a couple of yards away.

"Stop him, Mr Manners! It's the biggest one. I can't leave the basket."

"And I can't leave the light," said Josh; but, as they spoke, the artist was in full pursuit, seeing as he did that a delicious morsel was going to save itself from being turned into human food.

There was a quick trampling faintly heard on the wet stone floor, followed by a rush, a glide, a heavy bump, and a roar of smothered laughter.

"Yes, it's all very fine, young fellows," growled the artist, as he gathered himself up; "a nasty, slimy beast! I tried to stop him with my foot, and it was like the first step made in a skate. Has it gone?"

"Gone? Yes," cried Josh. "Never mind; there are plenty left. They're awful things to hold. He would have got away all the same."

"Not if I'd had a good grip," said Manners.

"I don't know," said Will. "He might have got a good grip of you. Those big ones can bite like fun. Are you very wet?"

"Bah! Abominable mess. This floor's covered with slime."

"Shall we stop any longer?"

"No," said the artist; "I've had enough for once. Let's get out in the open air again, and try and find out what made your noise."

In a few minutes they were back on the top of the great stone wall that held the waters back, listening in the darkness amidst the rush and roar of sluices and chute, supplemented by the distant thunder of the heavy falls high up the stream, for the peculiar thumping whose repetitions had caught Will's ears.

But they listened in vain, and continued their way to Drinkwater's cottage, where the basket with its living freight was placed, spite of the artist's protests, in his landlady's hands.

"Well, I suppose I must keep them," said Manners, "and I will, for this is about the finish up of our games, lads, for this year."

He spoke unconsciously. It was; for as soon as the trio had passed from the dam on their way to the first zig-zag, from out of the darkness at one end of the dam the strange, weird noise began again. It was as if heavy blows were being given upon some great iron tool. Now and then they would cease, but only to go on again for quite two hours, till all at once a fresh sound arose—a peculiar, whispering gurgle, which gradually gathered force, to go on increasing through the night; but not another blow was heard to fall.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

DANGER.

Will returned to the Mill House that night rather later than he should have been, after a long chat with the artist, and the first thing he learned was that his father had gone to bed with a bad headache.

It was his own time, too, and he hurried up to his bedroom, when, like a flash, came the recollection of the strange sounds he had heard. It was too late to go out again, so he opened the window and leaned there, listening; but from that position he could hear the roar of many waters—nothing more.

As a rule, Will's habit was to bang his head down on the pillow and draw one very deep, long, restful breath, as he stretched himself at full length, and the next moment he was asleep.

Somehow, on this particular night, when he went through his customary movements, the result was that he was more wide-awake than ever. Then for quite two hours he twisted, turned, stretched himself, yawned, got out of bed and drank cold water, bathed his face, walked up and down, tried to count a hundred forwards, then backwards, counting sheep going through a gap, did everything he could think of, and even thought of standing upon his head to see if that would do any good; but sleep would not come.

"Am I going to be ill?" he asked himself, and while he was waiting for the answer he dropped off soundly.

But for no pleasant rest, for it was into nightmare-like dreams of some great trouble. While he was trying to sleep, all recollection of the mysterious sounds was in abeyance; but they attacked him again in his dreams, with this peculiarity, that he seemed to know now exactly where they were. He was able to locate them precisely. There they were— hammer, hammer, hammer, throb, throb, throb, till it was almost maddening.

He tried to escape from them; he longed to get away; but there they were in the deep darkness, hemmed in by the deep booming chorus of the falling waters—the only part of his dreams that was real.

For during the whole night, through the sluices, along the chute, and over the wheel, the waters continued their course, keeping down the overburdened pool to the same level, for once more heavy rains in the hills rushed along the stream to augment the supply.

It was with a feeling of intense relief that the boy woke at last in the faint dawn of morning, sprang from the bed, and rushed to the open window again, to thrust his burning brow out into the cool, fresh air. The beating in his brain was gone, his mind was clear, and he strained out to try whether he could hear through the roar of falling waters the hammering that had tormented him all through the night.

"No," he said, "it's impossible to hear it from this window;" and he hurriedly dressed, to make his way out and up to the spot where he had stood with his friends.

"Nothing now," he said. "Could it have been fancy?"

He listened for a few minutes longer, and then mounted the rough steps, to stand on the top of the great stone wall to listen from there once more, before gazing up the valley and noticing that there were two little clusters of wild-ducks busily feeding just at the mouth of the stream where it entered the pool. There was a faint glow in the east, and flecks of gold high towards the zenith, promises of a glorious day, and he turned slowly, hesitating as to whether he should go back to bed.

"No! Rubbish!" he said. "I'll go and rouse up old Josh. Yes, and wake up Mr Manners, too. He'd like to see this glorious sky—ah! what's that?"

That was something unusual which had just caught his eye, for as he spoke he turned to look right along the top of the dam, where he seemed to see a strange disturbance on the surface of the water just at the end where the wall joined the rugged cliff.

"It must be a great trout," he said, "one that's being beaten against the stones, and is half-dead. No; I believe it's an otter."

He ran along the top of the wall and looked down in wonder, to see that a strange whirlpool seemed to have been formed, where twigs of dead wood, bits of grass, and autumn leaves were sailing round and round, before being sucked down a central hole.

"What does that mean?" he thought; but he acted as well as thought, going quite to the edge of the wall, and then descending the steep built-up slope of stones and cemented earth, to where at the base of the dam-wall he found himself face to face with a sight so suggestive of peril that he turned at once and ran for the mill.

For there below, gushing as it were from the bottom of the wall, was a little stream—a little fount equalling in bulk the tube-like shape formed by the swirling water he had noticed far above.

The quantity was small, and quite a tiny stream ran down the valley, cutting itself a channelled course; but Will knew enough—knew the power of water, and what such a tiny stream could do. In short, in those brief moments he had grasped the fact that a dangerous flaw had been formed in the dam, which, if unchecked, might mean destruction to them all.

"Father! Father!" cried Will, rushing into his father's bedroom.

"I'm afraid it's worse, my boy," was the reply. "I'll lie still for a few hours and see if my headache passes off."

"Father, wake up; you don't understand—the water's breaking through the dam!"

There was a heavy bump on the floor, which made the wash-hand jug rattle in the basin, as Mr Willows sprang out of bed, with his headache quite cured by the nervous shock.

"Do you mean it? Are you sure?"

"Yes, father, it's twice as big now as it was when I saw it first."

"Ah!" ejaculated Mr Willows, and he stood for a moment with brow knit and fists clenched, like a man gazing inwards.

"Run to the big bell, boy, and pull with all your might!"

"Yes, father. Is it very dan—"

"Run! Act!" was the reply, and in a few seconds the great bell was sending its notes in what seemed to the boy a harsh jangle, such as he had never heard before.

Rung at such a time and in such a manner, it carried but one message to those who heard—Danger!—and in a very short time the work-people came hurrying from the cottages which formed a scattered village down the vale, to where their master was standing on a block of stone where he could be well seen, waiting to give his orders.

"You, Dacey," he shouted to the first man, "take one of the horses— don't stop to saddle—and gallop right down the vale, giving the warning. Stop nowhere—shout as you go by each cottage, 'The dam bursts!'"

The man was off, and, while Willows was giving fresh orders, the clatter of the horse's hoofs was heard, and the man passed out of sight. Meanwhile, from the directions Willows was giving, the alarm was spreading fast, men's voices giving it everywhere.

There were a few women's shrieks heard, children began to cry, and there was wild excitement about the Mill House. Women's voices, too, were heard remonstrating, and words were uttered about saving this or that; but Willows rushed up to the first group, and shouted—

"Silence, there! Save your lives! Up the sides as fast as you can, and as high as you can climb. At any moment the dam may be washed away like so much salt. Think of nothing but your lives!"

A wild yearning cry full of despair arose at this, but the master's words went home, and the next minute the hurried scrambling of feet was heard, as women, carrying their children, began to climb up the sides of the vale, dragged and pushed up by the menfolk, in whose faces were seen reflected the looks of their chief; but to a man they were grim and stern; and all the while, harsh, wild and strange, bringing down as it were a shower of echoes of its tones, the great bell rang on, swung to and fro, and over and over under the feverish impulse given by Will's untiring arms.

So effective were the commands, so deeply imbedded in every breast was the knowledge of what might happen, that the time seemed short before Mr Willows could draw breath and feel satisfied that the weaker portion of the community were in safety.

"Now," he cried, "you who are old, and all you boys, follow the women. No words—Go! Now, my lads, you who are ready to work, let's see what we can save. But, mind, it must be one eye for what you are doing and one for yon tottering wall."

"Why, master," shouted the north-country man, "I don't see nowt. She'll stand for long after we are passed away. Aren't this all a skear?"

"No!" cried Willows, fiercely. "The strong dam is wounded, and the place is bleeding fast. Here, Will," he shouted, "leave that bell!"

"Oh, father," cried the boy, as he ran up, "don't send me away at a time like this."

"I am not going to, my boy; I want you to be my strong right hand. Now then, I shall not be with you, so watch for your safety and that of those who are with you. Take four men, and save the books first, then the chest, and all you can that is easiest to move. Scatter the things anywhere that they will lodge, as soon as they are higher than the dam. Off with you! Work for your lives! One more word of warning! When the wall goes, if go it does, it will be with one mighty rush, sweeping everything away. Now, six men with me!"

All the rest rushed to him, and he told off the number he required.

"You others," he cried, "you have heard what I've said. Off with you, and try to save your most treasured possessions—by your, I mean those of your neighbours and yourselves. At a time like this all must be in common, as it shall be when, if, please God, we escape, I will try to make up to you for what you have lost. Off! Now, my lads, every man lift and bear as big a stone as you can. Follow me!"

The next minute, headed by their chief, a line of men, like ants from a disturbed hill, were seen staggering beneath their burdens up the rugged steps to the top of the dam.

"Phew! This here's a heavy one!" panted the north-country man as they reached the top. "Say, maister, it'll be dangerous to be safe for us if the wall goes now."

The words were uttered in such a cheery tone, that, in spite of their peril, a hearty laugh rose from the party, and, as Mr Willows paused for a moment to gaze downward and see how on both the steep sides of the valley his commands were being carried out, a grim smile for a moment relaxed his tightened lips.

"Now," he cried, "do as I do," as he bent himself to his task, and stepping to the end of the wall where the whirlpool seen first by Will had begun to look more worthy of its name—for it was three times as swift and mighty as at its birth—he leaned forward and softly dropped in the great stone he carried, and stood back to let the others follow suit.

"It seems a mere nothing," he said, as the last stone was cast, "but it is all that we can do, and we must keep on."

"Ahoy, there!" came from the opposite end just then. "What's the matter, Mr Willows?" and the burly figure of the artist came hurrying across the dam. "Not safe?"

There was another hail, and the Vicar came hurrying down the path, preceded by his son.

"Why, Willows," he cried, breathlessly, "surely the dam is not giving way?"

"Oh, father!" faltered Josh. "It must be that—that—"

"What do you mean, boy? Speak!"

"It is something to do with the noise we all heard last night."

At that moment, with the rising sun shining full upon his fierce, contracted face and glistening bald head, Drinkwater stood leaning out from the farther bank, holding tightly with one hand to an overhanging birch, and if ever countenance wore a fiendish smile, it was his.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

THE GREAT PERIL.

The Vicar had no chance to ask Josh what he had heard, for the boy had rushed on to the dam, regardless of any danger that might be near, to reach Mr Willows, to whom he clung breathless and exhausted from his efforts to answer the summons of the bell.

"Where's Will?" he cried, earnestly. "Where's Will?"

"Safe, boy, safe," replied Willows, huskily. "Back to the side. It's dangerous here."

"I only wanted to know where Will was. I don't mind now. I'm going to stop and help."

"Ahoy, there! Drinkwater!" shouted the north-country man. "Come on! Here's lots to do. This is bigger job than putting t'fire oot."

The man addressed heard the appeal, shaded his eyes for a moment with his hand, and as if influenced by the strong man's words, came slowly down from his place of vantage to join the group, which now set to work loosening the stones near the top of the dam, to carry them to the wall end and pitch or roll them down into the weakened part.

For a full half-hour all worked as men had never worked before, conscious the while that those they loved were gathered at each end of the threatened wall high up in safely, and watching their efforts to save the mill. But at the end of that half-hour Willows suddenly stepped to where the Vicar and Manners were toiling like the rest, the latter, with dripping face, displaying his giant strength.

"Stop!" he cried. "The dam is bound to go! Labour in vain! We are sure to have some warning. All follow to the mill. Let's save there all we can."

There was a hearty cheer at this, and the jocose weaver shouted—

"Now, them's the words I like. We'd have stopped till the old dam burst, but speaking for self and family, ah'd say I'd reather not."

There was another good-humoured roar at this, but it was mingled with a sigh of relief, and a swift walk was soon hastened into a run, till all were gathered in a fairly safe position above the mill, where they paused to breathe.

Willows and his friends came last, the former standing smiling to see the stack of household treasures Will and his helpmates had piled up.

"Well done, my lads!" he cried. "We've come to help you now."

"Have you saved the dam, father?" cried Will, excitedly.

There was a look of resignation on the father's face, as he gazed in his son's eyes and slowly shook his head.

"Ahoy, there! Drinkwater! Ahoy! What are you hinging back there for?" shouted the north-country man. "More wuck to do. Come on and help."

All eyes were directed now to a solitary figure standing on the top of the great stone wall as if inspecting the damaged spot.

"What's he stopping there for?" cried the Vicar, excitedly.

"Why, Drinkwater, my lad," shouted Willows, between his hands, "you can't stay there. Come over to us here. Quick, man! Quick!"

The old fellow turned and shaded his eyes again, gazing fiercely at the speaker, and, as he lowered his hand and came slowly towards them, Will noticed that across his white brow there was a broad mark of blood.

"Father, look," he whispered, hoarsely; "what does that mean?"

"A mark from his hands, my boy. He must have worn them raw. Poor fellow! He has been like a hero in this strife."

The man came down, still slowly, and then ascended to where the group were awaiting further orders; but when these orders came, and with a rush the workers formed a line from the mill up to a shelf-like path where by no possibility could the pent-up water rise if the dam gave way, and began handing up rapidly bale after bale of finished silk, and mighty skeins of twisted thread, he did not stir a hand, but stood with the stain upon his brow, leaning against a corner of the mill, apparently exhausted, and never once taking his eyes from his master.

For a full hour the men worked on, cheering loudly as the announcement was made that the wareroom was empty; and then a rush was made for the Mill House, where in turn all that was portable and good was borne away. Then came the end.

For a long while past Willows and his friends had ceased to give any thought to the worldly goods, standing together intently watching for the danger they felt must come, and watching as it were in vain; for, save its ragged edge, from whence stones had been torn, the green and mossy old wall stood intact. The sluices still roared; along the great chute a solid-looking mass of crystal water rushed and gleamed and flashed before it bent over in a glorious curve to plunge on to the wheel and break in spray, while the men laughed and joked merrily, as they made a play of their heavy toil and shouted gaily to the two groups of watchers—their wives and children and work-mates—who shouted encouragingly back.

And all at once, as if hoping to lighten their labours—lovers of music as these people are—a shrill, musical, woman's voice arose, starting a familiar chorus, which was taken up directly by the young, to rise and fall and swell along the valley, the sweet soprano tones supported by the roaring waters' heavy bass.

"Bravo! Bravo!" shouted the Vicar, huskily, and as he spoke Will noticed that his voice sounded strange, and in the glance he obtained he noted that his eyes were filled with tears.

The next minute he was hurrying up towards his people, walking-stick in hand, to leap upon a stone where he could be well seen by the choral singers on either side of the vale, and there for about a minute he stood, waving his baton-like stick, conducting his strange double choir, who sang more loudly their cheery mill-song, and at their best, till in an instant, like a thunderclap, there was a sharp report, the song became a wail of agony, and the voice of the master was heard above all, crying—

"For your lives, men, run!"

It could only have been for a few seconds, during which nothing seemed to happen save that there was the patter and scramble of many feet as with one accord all seemed to have made for safety, while, as that haven was reached, all turned their eyes towards the dam, to look in wonder, seeking as they did in vain for the cause of that sharp report.

Another or two of those strangely drawn-out seconds passed, and then the watchers had their reward. The great, green, mossy wall, with all its luxuriance of orange-tinted bracken and golden fern, seemed to shiver as if touched by a passing wind. Then the quivering motion ceased, the whole centre crumbled softly down, and it was as if some huge, hoary monster, a living earthquake, had leaped from the prison in which it was bound, to spring upon its prey—the great mill buildings below.

One moment all were there intact; the next they were gone, and in their place a mighty river of water was tearing down the vale with a hiss and roar that struck the gazers dumb; and then a great gap was visible where the vast dam-wall had been, the pool was empty, there was little more than a stream, and the roaring monster that had swept all before it could be heard gnashing, raging and destroying, far away below.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

FIGHTING THE DESTROYER.

An awful hush of silence. It seemed as if it was too much for human brain to bear. The breath was held pent-up in every breast, so that it might have been the dwelling-place of the dumb.

Then the Vicar's voice was heard, and the sound thereof was like the key that opened a closed-up door.

"Where's Mr Willows?" he shouted.

"Here!" came from close at hand, followed by, "And who has seen Will?"

"Here—close by me," cried Manners.

"Josh! Josh!" shouted Will.

"Here! Here! All right!"

"Then everyone is safe," cried the boy. "No, no, no!" he shouted, in anguished tones. "Where's poor old Boil O? He was there just now, standing by that corner. No, no! there is no corner—everything has gone. Oh, surely he can't be drowned!"

There was no reply, but, headed by Willows, a strong party of the men followed him and the boys down the track of the mighty torrent—a clean-swept path of stone, for mill, house, sheds, cottages, the whole of the tiny village was not!

There was nothing to impede their way for fully half a mile, and there, in a deep curve down in the valley, in a turgid stream still running fast, lay in wild confusion, baulk and beam, rafter and mass of swept-down stone, the relics of the water's prey.

In his excitement Willows was the first to reach this pool; but Will was close behind, near enough to stretch out a hand to try an check him as he tore off his coat, rushed to the edge, stepped on to one stone, and leaped to another and another projecting above the surface, before plunging in and swimming towards where a pile of timbers were crushed together with the water foaming by.

"What's he going to do?" cried Manners, panting as he came up.

"I don't know," cried the boy, wildly. "Oh, Mr Manners, help me—he'll be drowned!"

As the boy spoke he followed his father's example, to leap from stone to stone and finally plunge in, trying almost vainly to swim, for the foaming water gave but the poorest support. There were stones, too, everywhere, hewn blocks and others that had been torn from their native beds; but somehow, helped by the stream, Will reached the spot at length where he could see his father, apparently helpless, clinging to the naked roots of a swept-down tree as if for his very life.

"Father!" cried the boy, as he anchored himself in turn, and gazing in horror in the staring eyes that met his own. "What shall I do?" he cried.

But help was near, and the despairing feeling that was overcoming poor Will died out as the gruff, familiar voice of Manners just behind cried—

"Hold on, Will, lad! That's right! I've got him tight! Why, Willows, man, what's gone wrong?"

He whom he addressed turned his eyes slowly to give the speaker an appealing look, and then they closed, the head dropped back, the surging waters swept over the face, and, but for the artist's sturdy arm, it would have gone ill indeed; but the next moment the fainting man's head was raised and rested on the artist's shoulder.

"He must be badly hurt, Will. But all right; I've got him safe, and I'll soon take him to the shore."

"Here, let me take one side," cried Will.

"Nonsense, dear lad! Stay as you are."

"I can't," cried Will; "I must help. He is my father, and I must and will!"

"That's right, my boy, but on my word you can't. I am a strong man, I believe, but it is all I can do to hold my own. If you leave go you'll be swept away, and your father will be drowned; for I tell you now, I couldn't stop by him and see you go."

Will gazed at him blankly, and for a few moments that group in the midst of the tangle of broken timber and jagged root hung together, boy and man staring into each other's eyes.

"Will, dear lad," said the artist, at last, "we are good old friends. Trust and believe in me. I'll save your father if I can. If I don't, it is because I can't, and I've gone too. Promise me you'll hold on there till I come back, or some of your friends come down. They must know how we are fixed. Will you do what I say? I am speaking as your father would. Hold on where you are."

"Would he say that?" gasped Will, faintly.

"He would, I vow."

Will bowed his head, and the next moment he was clinging there, to the clean-washed roots of the uptorn tree, watching the heads of father and friend being rapidly swept-down the stream, while the waters were surging higher and higher about his breast, for the depression was being filled rapidly by the undammed stream.

"To be alone like this!" groaned Will. "Why didn't I swim with them and try to help?"

He spoke aloud, his words sounding like a long-drawn moan; and then he started, for an echo seemed to come from close at hand, heard plainly above the rushing of the stream. His next thought was that it was fancy, but, as the idea flitted through his brain in silence, there was the moan again from somewhere at the back.

It was the faint cry of someone in grievous peril, and it drove out self from the generous boy's breast. Someone wanted help, and he was strong and hearty still. It took but little time to find out whence the deep-toned moaning came. It was from out of a jagged mass of broken timbers, whose ends were anchored among the stones, and through them the rising waters were rushing fast.

It was like turning from a great peril into dangers greater far, but the boy never thought of that. He measured the distance with his eyes, and came to the conclusion that he could pass hand by hand through the waters, among the roots, till he was straight above the swaying timbers. To swim would be impossible, he knew; but he felt that he could let himself go, be carried those few yards, catch at one or other of the timbers, and hold on there.

As he finished thinking, he drew a deep breath, felt stronger than ever, and began to act.

Reaching out with his right hand, he got a grip of the nearest root, let go with his left, and in an instant, he felt as if the water had seized him, and was trying to tear his right arm out of the socket. The jerk was numbing, but he got a grip with his left hand, and tried again and again, till he lay on his back, his arms outstretched above his head, his feet pointing straight at the chaos of timbers, took another deep breath, and then let go.

There was a quick, gliding motion, and his feet struck against one big beam, slipped right over it, and the next minute he was in the very centre of the tangle, while his progress was checked for a sufficiently long time for him to get a good hold, and feel that for the time being he was safe. His breath was coming and going fast, though, from the excitement as well as exertion. And then it was almost in horror that his heart seemed to stand still. It was a momentary sensation, and it gave way to a feeling of joy, for there, close at his side, so near that he could touch, was the grim, upturned face of Drinkwater, with eyes staring wildly into his. He, too, was clinging with all his might to one of the broken timber baulks, and, as his eyes met Will's, he uttered a piteous, gasping cry, and murmured the one word—

"Help!"

That appeal went straight to the boy's heart, and seemed to nerve him for his task.

"Help? Yes!" he cried. "I've come to bring you help;" and then a pang shot through his breast as he spoke his next words. "Mr Manners was here just now, and he'll soon be back."

Would, he asked himself, as he thought of his father, those words prove true?

"Cheer up, old fellow!" he cried, and he felt stronger still.

Here was something he could do.

"Can you raise yourself a little higher?" he said, for the rising water lapped in a wave nearly to the sufferer's mouth.

"No, no," said the man, faintly; "I'm gripped between two timbers fast by the legs. There, I feel better now. Ah, Will, lad, I am glad you have come! I can think and see all now. That burning pain has gone from my head, and it's all quite clear. And how just and right all is, if we could always only see."

"Yes, yes, of course," cried Will, cheerily; "but keep a good heart. They'll come and help us soon. But I want to see you higher up; the water's getting deeper, and you must raise your head."

The man smiled softly in his face; his old grim and savage look had gone, and, after making a vain effort, his head sank back so low that the water swept right over his nostrils, and, fast held as he was, he must have drowned; but in an instant Will shifted his position, took another grip, and forced his legs beneath him till his knees were below the prisoner's shoulders, wedging him up so that he could breathe freely once more.

"There, that's better," cried Will, hoarsely. "You'll be all right now."

"Yes, for a few minutes, lad, but the end is near, and it's all quite right. Will, lad, I used to make toys for you, when you were a little child, and, when you grew bigger, I used to let you spoil my tools, for I never had bairn of my own, and, after my way, I somehow got to love you, lad. And then, I must have gone kinder sorter mad. That burning pain came in my head. I can see it all clearly now, just at the last. I got cursing the best of masters that ever stepped, and one night in a mad fit, I tried to burn him out of house and home; but when I saw the dear old mill a-fire, I couldn't bear it, and fought, like the madman I was, to put it out—and did. Then it all came back again worse and stronger than before. I felt that I must do it—and did. 'The fire fails,' I said, 'but the water wins. It made him a rich man'—your good father, boy—'and now it shall make him poor. My revenge!' I said. Yes, my revenge! Last night, Will—tell him this when I am gone—I got down by the bottom of the dam and worked with mallet and long crowbar, as I had worked night after night before, till the water began to run just in one little tiny trickle. And then I stopped. Water—my slave then—I knew would do the rest. And it has, lad, just as I thought, given me my revenge, as I called it, but turned and slain me too. Well, it was right it should be so. I know it now. Tell him—my good old master—all that I have said, and ask him to forgive me, if he can, for I know it now—I must have been mad."

He ceased speaking, and lay quite still with his eyes gazing sadly in the son's face, while a feeling of horror and repulsion was gathering strongly in the lad's breast, till the wretched being spoke again, with the water once more gathering closely about his lips.

"Now then," he said, "you know the truth. It's all over Will, lad. But for you, I should have been drowned before. You are young and strong; I know you can swim. This water's nowt to you. Go, dear lad, and save your life. Don't look back once to see me die. It would come harder if I thought you did. There," he gasped, as a wave lapped close to his lips once more, "think of your own self now. I have had my day, and ended badly. Your time has all to come. Will, lad, bad as I have been, can you grip my hand once more?"

"Only in my heart! If I let go, we both shall drown. There! Cheer up! Help must come soon."

"Not for me. Quick, swim for your life. Good-bye!"

"What, and leave you here to drown? Not if I know it!"

"What, after all that I have done?"

"Yes; I couldn't leave you even now. I tell you, help must come, and— there, what did I say?"

At that moment, the artist's cheery voice sounded from close at hand, and, directly after, he and two more of the mill hands were helping to free the wretched prisoner from his wooden bonds.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

THE STORY TOLD.

The alarm had so spread, carried as the disaster was by the galloping messenger from the mill, as well as by the flood itself, that help was pouring in from all quarters, and as soon as the sufferers were borne dripping and senseless from the water, scores of hands were ready to bear them into shelter, where doctors soon declared that there was no further danger to fear.

John Willows, as he lay on a couch grasping his son's hand, hurriedly explained his action when he had dashed into the flood, for he had caught sight of Drinkwater for a moment, and seen that he was in peril of his life, but it was only to nearly lose his own, for he had been caught between two heavy beams sailing with the rapid current, and been so crushed that insensibility came on.

As for Drinkwater, he lay calm and sensible, like a man just recovering from some long illness, and there was a look of pathetic wonder in his eyes that he was still alive which was pitiful to see.

"No wonder," said one of the doctors; "he's been within an inch of losing his life; but in a few days he will be all right again;" and his words proved true.

That same afternoon the man was carried by friendly hands up to his own cottage, which, of course, lay high above the broken dam, while others formed a kind of litter upon which Mr Willows was borne up to the Vicarage, which he was bidden to consider his home. So that, after the horrors of the morning, as the various employes found shelter or returned to their uninjured homes, a strange feeling of peace began to reign.

It was quite evening when Josh and Will descended to Drinkwater's cottage, Will having declared himself none the worse for all that he had gone through, and, as his father was sleeping calmly, and the boy was looking strained and white, Mr Carlile agreed that the fresh air would do him good.

"Tell Mr Manners," he said, "that we have plenty of room here, and that I should be glad if he will join us, and so leave the cottage to its owner, and his wife's hands tree. You understand, Josh. Be insistent, and tell him that if he does not come I shall feel quite hurt."

"Yes, father, I understand," cried Josh, and the boys set off. "I wonder," said Josh, "that old Toadstool has not been up."

"Oh, he meant kindly," said Will. "He was afraid of disturbing us, for I heard the doctor tell him that father must be kept very quiet for a day or two."

They reached the cottage, which looked as attractive as ever in its nest of flowers; but, as they approached, they saw no sign of the artist, and they were about to go up to the door when they heard a voice from one of the open bedroom windows, and both stopped short as the words struck their ears.

It was Mrs Drinkwater speaking, and her voice was half-choked with sobs, so that her words were indistinct. But Will caught this—

"Don't, don't say more. I have nothing to forgive you. It is enough for me that you are your own dear self again."

The boys stole away on tiptoe, Will saying, huskily: "We can't disturb them now. Let's go and look at the broken dam."

Josh stopped short to peer into his companion's face.

"Can you stand it, Will?" he said.

The boy was silent for a few moments, and then, after making an effort to clear his voice—

"Yes," he said, but very huskily. "Everybody has been saved, and I am going to try and bear it like—well, like a man."

"Hooray!" cried Josh, softly. "But I say, what can have become of old Manners?" And then, with a hearty laugh, "I say! Oh, just look there!"

He pointed in the direction of a verdant shelf overlooking the clean-swept vale; and there, beneath his white umbrella, sat the object of their search, calmly smoking his big black briar pipe, contemplating the ruins of the dam and a small pile of stones, the only vestige of the vanished mill.

"Why, here you are," cried Josh.

"Ah, boys," he said, sadly. "But you, Will, ought not you to be in bed?"

"Bed?" cried the boy, scornfully. "What for? Josh lent me a suit of his clothes, and I'm quite dry now."

"Oh, yes," said Manners; "so am I, but I feel as if I could make a handkerchief precious wet by blubbering like a great, weak girl."

"Oh, don't worry about it," cried Will. "Think how we've all been saved. Father's in the best of heart, and he says as soon as he's well that he'll set to and build the whole place up bigger and better than it was before."

"Yes," said Josh, "I heard him; and he said, too, that he could do it with a better heart in his thankfulness that not a life was lost."

"Ah, yes," said Manners, sadly, "that's quite right, boys; but when you came I wasn't thinking about that, but about my own loss."

"Oh," said Will. "You mean about the place being so spoiled?"

"No, I don't," said the artist, gruffly. "I was thinking about my pictures—twelve canvases, a whole year's work, washed right away, dead, as it were, and buried under some heap of stones. Ah, boys, they were only so much painted cloth, and I'm afraid they were very bad, but it was all so much work that was somehow very dear to me, and—bah! Never say die! I'll begin again like your father, and build up something fresh."

For some days Will paced about the devastated scene, looking white and strange—like one who had a burden on his mind.

The Vicar noticed it, and spoke to the doctor when he came to see his patient.

"Oh, yes," said the doctor; "I saw it at once. Shock, my dear sir— shock! The poor boy has a deal to bear, but a young, elastic, healthy chap like that will soon come round."

Josh mentioned it, too, in confidence to his father, saying—

"I don't like poor Will's looks. He's so white and strange."

But, on hearing the doctor's words, he said—

"Well, he ought to know. We must wait."

He had not long to wait. A few days later, Will was himself again, for the burden was off his mind. He had rested till he thought that his father was well enough to hear what he had to say, and then, alone by his bedside, he repeated almost word for word the confession Drinkwater had made.

Mr Willows listened silently right to the end, and then, after a long silence, he lay holding his son's hand clasped between his own.

"Horrible, indeed, my boy," he said, gently.

"Yes, horrible, indeed, father. What shall you do?"

There was another spell of silence before Mr Willows spoke again.

"Forgive, my boy," he said, "as I hope to be forgiven. What did he say when he believed he was a dying man—that he was mad? Those must have been the words of truth."

They were, for the time passed on, and as the new mill rose, James Drinkwater was one of the busiest hands, restoring the place to its old working state, a man completely changed, the most faithful worker about the establishment.

"It is our joint secret, Will, my boy," said his father. "Let it rest."

And it has rested until now, when, long years after the Drinkwaters have been laid to their rest, and Manners, the artist, has ceased to visit the beautiful vale, the story of Will of the Mill is told.

THE END.