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frightened little brothers and sisters at his heels,
reached “ high land,” they knew that the timbers had
reached the old elm, and that the stream was dammed
just as they had often foreboded; for it seemed as
though the whole Atlantic Ocean had been suddenly
let loose below and all about them. Ah! the dear
cabin must go! Terry turned in silence, to meet the
remainder of the family struggling up the knoll.

It was a chilly night in fall, and pitchy dark,
though it was the time of the full moon.. Dennis had
caught up the lantern in his terrified flight, and had
matches in his pockets, so that soon they were able
' to see a little, and to count up the shivering little
group. Eight children, father and mother— so far, so
good; but where — why, where was Granny!

“QO father!” cried Terry, “how could you leave
her asleep when you knew I had the babies?”

Dennis wrung his hands, and silently heaped male-
dictions upon his own head. The children wept and
howled, for how could they live without Granny?
And even Biddy broke into a high Irish lament.

Suddenly from the window which was toward them
of their little home, the window of Granny’s room,
beamed a light.

Granny was awake, then, and so far safe and sound.
They saw her raise the curtain, saw her moving
about briskly and peering out, and then they all saw
her sit down beside the window. They could not see
her face, but they knew that it were the same smile-
like calm as ever.

“Take care of yeselves now,” said Terry, pulling
his hat down a little more firmly upon his head, and
turning toward the seething flood that covered the
acre and a half between him and the little house,
“I’m off for Granny.”

Biddy threw her arms up with a shrill cry. She
was “shure he’d be did, stone-did, by the time he got
safe there !”

But the children applauded. It seemed a simple
enough thing to them for Terry to wade over to the
house, and, though they had never heard the story of
the old Anchises, to bring- Granny over on his
shoulders, They did not know that the water was
already as deep in many places as Terry was high, and
that if a piece of the solid old bridge timbers which
were whirling down stream one by one, should strike
him, that he would float away as dead as the timbers
themselves ; and you may be sure Terry did not stop
to tell them.

He simply shut his teeth tight, and waded in. By

GRANNY.

the light of the lantern they could see him out a little
way; then the darkness took him in, and there were
ten minutes of suspense, in which the howling of the
tempest, and the thunder of the waters, sounded more
terrible than ever; at least to Dennis and Bridget.

Then the wind brought them a faint “halloo!”
Next, in front of the light that streamed from Gran-
ny’s window, a dark figure was visible by Granny's
side. Terry was safely over,

“Oh, but he’ll never get the Granny safely across
there!” groaned Dennis. “A plague on me ould
rheumatism that I couldn’t go with the b’y.”

“Terry’'ll manage,” said little Norah shrewdly.
“Terry’s as strong as a horse.”

But in her heart even Norah was anxious, and
they held their breaths, and shiveringly paced about
on the knoll. The little ones, wet, and cold, and
sleepy, at last began to cry vehemently, and to
demand dry clothes. Biddy tried to hush them; but
at last, feeling the babies shiver in her arms, she de-
cided to get them to the nearest neighbor’s, a mile on
to the north, put them to bed, and then return herself.
As she hurried away, she and they all heard from the
house the sound of rapid and vigorous pounding. In
a moment it had stopped. What was Terry doing?

In fact, Terry was taking down the front door for a
raft. The water was already up to the doorstep,
and rising every instant. So while Granny, wrapped
up and ready for flight, with all the valuables that
she could carry fastened firmly to her clothes, sat
placidly in her chair crooning an old Irish song,
Terry with a few stout strokes had the door off, and
soon Granny was balancing on it out on the water;
the clothes-line was wound around it, and over her
lap, with plenty of it in her hands to hold on by.
She had gathered together a pile of blankets and
clothing, and Terry heaped them up around her.

“Ah, me hins!” groaned Granny tenderly.
“Don’t ye belave, Terry dear, that one coop could
get on behint me here?”

Terry, the boy that Granny had educated with
“an egg a day,” couldn’t resist such an appeal as
that. He waded around to the hen-coops, securing
Granny’s craft meanwhile to a window casement,
brought back the best coop of hens, established it
as Granny had suggested —with a bend af the clothes-
line—and then he set out on the perilous return
voyage, pushing his unwieldy craft before him when
he could, pulling it by the clothesline when he
couldn’t push it, and when he came to a deep