He evidently dared not go on; and the same thought seized all of us--"Can he get back ?" Spreading his legs and arms he now lay flat upon the poles, peering towards the hole as if to try if he could see anything of the drowning man.

It was only for an instant, then he rolled over on to the rotten ice, smashed through, and sank more suddenly than the skater had done.
The mill-girl jumped up with a wild cry and rushed to the water, but John Binder pulled her back as he had pulled me.

Martha, our housemaid, said afterwards (and was ready to take oath on the gilt-edged Church service my mother gave her) that the girl was so violent that it took fourteen men to hold her; but Martha wasn't there, and I only saw two, one at each arm, and when she fainted they laid her down and left her, and hurried back to see what was going on.

For tenderness is an acquired grace in men, and it was not common in our neighbourhood.
What was going on was that John Binder had torn his hat from his head and was saying, "I don't know if there's aught we _can_ do, but I can't go home myself and leave him yonder.

I'm a married man with a family, but I don't vally _my_ life if----" But the rest of this speech was drowned in noise more eloquent than words, and then it broke into cries of "See thee!--It is--it's t' maester! and he has--no!--yea!--he _has_--he's gotten him.