"Ropes—they got ropes, for there was a monster bridge below, which the two will pass under before long, as the ice-cake floats that far. And the ropes must be ready, and let down t' save 'em.—Yes, rods o' rope were lowered, as fast as this could be managed, and as close as possible t' where the men on the bridge judged the pair on the ice would go by. There was a big loop in the end that trailed t' the river. But long as that rope was, shure, it wasn't long enough, though the man was able t' catch it—and what a shout o' joy went up!—and he could've slipped it over his own head as easy as easy, but he would not do it—no, not without her. But, oh, as he leaned to drop the big loop around her (another rope was comin' down at the same time for him), she weakened, and fainted in his arms, and lay there in the snow.
"He lifted her—quick! But before he could pass the loop over her head, the current swept her on. Now there was still time for him t' spring back and save himself—save her, he could not. But he would not leave her lyin' there and save himself, and so—and so——"
"Oh, has he got t' die?" pleaded Johnnie, brokenly.
"Johnnie," went on the Father, gently, "we're not on this earth just t' have a good time, or an easy time,—no, or a safe time. We're here t' do our duty, and this is how yer father thought. Lad, dear, some day ye'll come t' a tight place yerself. And ye'll have t' decide what ye're t' do: go this way, which is the easiest, or that, which is the hard path o' duty, a path which'll take all the pluck ye've got, but the right one, nevertheless—the fine, true way. And when such a time comes, shure, ye'll remember what he did that day——"
Johnnie's eyes were closed again. From under his shining lashes the tears were beginning to creep, finding their way in long letter S's down his pale cheeks. "I'll think o' what my father did!" he answered. "Oh, I will, Father Pat! My fine, wonderful father!"
"Could he have chosen t' be saved, and leave the young wife there? O' course, he could not—if ever he wanted t' have a peaceful thought again, or the respect o' men and women. But maybe he didn't even think o' all this, but just did the brave act naturally—instinctively. No, he would not be saved without her. And—the ropes were both out o' reach, now, and the ice cake was floatin' swifter, and swifter, and, dear! dear! breakin' at one side.
"His wife in his arms, he faced about, holdin' the slim, brown figure against his heart. He was talkin' to her then, I'll be bound, sayin' all the tender, lovin' things that could ease her agony, though as, mercifully enough now, she was limp in his hold, likely she could not even hear."
"Oh, I hope so!" said Cis. "Then she wouldn't be suffering!"
"From the shore the people watched them, and from the bridge. But manny could not watch, for, ah, 'twas a tragic sight. Some o' these prayed; some hid their faces. But others shouted—in encouragement, maybe, or just terror. Annyhow, the young husband, hearin' the calls, lifted his face t' that high bridge. And 'twas then he called—just once, but they heard. And what he called was a single name, and that name was—Johnnie."
Down went Cis's head then, and she wept without restraint. But Johnnie was somehow uplifted now, as by pride. "I can see him!" he cried. "My father! Just as plain!" He sat up straight again, though his eyes were still shut. "I can see his face, smilin', and his light hair! Why, it's as if he was lookin' straight at me!" Then trembling again into One-Eye's hold, "But I can't see my mother's face, 'cause it's turned away, hidin' on my father's shoulder. I can see just her back. Oh, my—poor—m-mother!"