With a word to her father, Lois followed her friend. They came, at last, to a part of the ground directly behind the little village of Stanley, now lying beneath the water. Here they plied the refugees with question after question, and finally came upon the man who had seen the girl wheel her horse and dash down the road after the Hendersons.
“There is not one chance in a thousand that she escaped,” he said slowly; “nor the Hendersons, either, for that matter.”
The girls left him and continued on down the course of the raging water, for they believed that Shirley might possibly have reached safety in that direction.
It grew dusk, and still they walked on, scanning the nearby waters and the ground closely. Night fell.
“Well, we might as well go back,” said Mabel quietly. “I am afraid we shall never see her again.”
“I know we won’t,” said Lois, and fell to weeping.
“Come, come,” said Mabel, throwing her arm about her friend’s shoulders. “Crying will do no good.”
“But—but,” sobbed Lois, “if it hadn’t been for me she would be alive.”
“How do you make that out?” asked Mabel, in some surprise.
“Why, she would not have come to this part of the country.”