felt herself giving away, and she cried out brokenly for Peter not
to be afraid. And then something drove pitilessly against her
body, and she flung out one arm, holding Peter close with the
other--and caught hold of a bit of stub that protruded like a
handle from the black and slippery log the flood-water had brought
down upon her.

"We're all right, Peter," she cried, even in that moment when she
knew she had lost. "We're all ri--"

And then suddenly the bright glory of her head went down, and with
her went Peter, still held to her breast under the sweeping rush
of the flood.

Even then it was thought of Peter that filled her brain. Somehow
she was not afraid. She was not terrified, as she had often been
of the flood-rush of waters that smashed down the creeks in
springtime. An inundating roar was over her, under her, and all
about her; it beat in a hissing thunder against the drums of her
ears, yet it did not frighten her as she had sometimes been
frightened. Even in that black chaos which was swiftly suffocating
the life from her, unspoken words of cheer for Peter formed in her
heart, and she struggled to hold him to her, while with her other
hand she fought to raise herself by the stub of the log to which
she clung. For she was not thinking of him as Peter, the dog, but
as something greater--something that had fought for her that day,
and because of her had died.

Suddenly she felt a force pulling her from above. It was the big
log, turning again to that point of equilibrium which for a space