her.
"Where is George Kearney?" he asked tremulously.
"George Kearney!" echoed Christie, for a moment believing the excitement
had turned her father's brain. "You know he is not here; he is in San
Francisco."
"He is here--I tell you," said Carr impatiently; "he has been here ever
since the high water, trying to save the flume and reservoir."
"George--here!" Christie could only gasp.
"Yes! He passed here a few moments ago, to see if you were all safe,
and he has gone on towards the flume. But what he is trying to do is
madness. If you see him, implore him to do no more. Let him abandon the
accursed flume to its fate. It has worked already too much woe upon us
all; why should it carry his brave and youthful soul down with it?"
The words were still ringing in her ears, when he suddenly passed away,
with the hurrying crowd. Scarcely knowing what she did, she ran out,
vaguely intent only on one thought, seeking only the one face, lately
so dear in recollection that she felt she would die if she never saw it
again. Perplexed by confused voices in the woods, she lost track of
the crowd, until the voices suddenly were raised in one loud outcry,
followed by the crashing of timber, the splashing of water, a silence,
and then a dull, continuous roar. She ran vaguely on in the direction of
the reservoir, with her father's injunction still in her mind, until a
terrible idea displaced it, and she turned at right angles suddenly, and
ran towards the slope leading down to the submerged flat. She had barely
left the shelter of the trees behind her before the roar of water
seemed to rise at her very feet. She stopped, dazed, bewildered, and
horror-stricken, on the edge of the slope. It was the slope no longer,
but the bank of the river itself!
Even in the gray light of early morning, and with inexperienced eyes,
she saw all too clearly now. The trestle-work had given way; the curving
mile of flume, fallen into the stream, and, crushed and dammed against
the opposite shore, had absolutely turned the whole river through the
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