cisive of the fate of my young friend Ben
Mayberry. It gave me an appreciation of the tremendous irresistibility of
the freshet, which must have ended the lives of the hapless party almost
on the instant. The bravest swimmer would be absolutely helpless in the
grasp of such a terrific current, and in a night of pitchy darkness would
be unable to make the first intelligent effort to save himself.

At last I went home through the drizzling rain, as miserable a mortal as
one could imagine. When I reached the house I was glad to find that my
family were still asleep. It would be time enough for them to learn of my
affliction and the public disaster on the coming morrow.

The pattering of the rain on the roof accorded with my feeling of
desolation, and I lay awake until almost daylight, listening, wretched,
dismal, and utterly despairing.

I slept unusually late, and I was glad, when I went down to my breakfast,
to learn that some kind neighbor had told my family all I knew, and
indeed, a little more. The river rose steadily until daylight, by which
time it was two feet above the abutments, and not a vestige of the bridge
remained.

But the water had reached its highest point, for, after remaining
stationary an hour, it had begun to fall, and was now a couple of inches
lower than "high-water mark."

There were two things which I dreaded--the sight of the furious river,
and to meet the sad, white face of Ben Mayberry's mother. I felt that I
could give her no word of comfort, for I needed it almost as much as did
she. She must have abandoned all hope by this time, and her loss was
enough to crush life itself from her.

When walking along the street I found that everyone was talking about the
unexampled flood. It had overflowed the lower part of the city, and
people were making their way through the streets in boats. Scores of
families were made homeless, and the sights were curious enough to draw
multitudes thither.

I kept away from every point where I could catch so much as a glimpse of
the freshet.

"You have robbed me of the brightest and best boy I ever knew," I
muttered, in bitterness of spirit; "he was one whom I loved as if he were
a son."

The shadow of death seemed to rest on the office when I reached it. The
loss of Ben Mayberry was a personal affliction to everyone there. Only
the most necessary words were spoken, and the sighing, which could be
heard at all times, came from the heart.

I went to my de