seized the other girl, and fled without looking behind her.

But the old servant, Françoise, could think of her little favorite even under the shadow of coming destruction. She darted into the house, and had just caught the child in her arms, when the tremendous din of the final crash told her that it was too late. In an instant the house was lifted bodily from its place, and spun round like a top. The child was torn from her clasp, and she felt herself thrown violently forward, the strong timbers falling to pieces around her like a pack of cards. Still, however, the brave woman struggled to free herself; but the weight that kept her down defied her utmost strength. For her own safety she cared little, although a violent pain in her head and a numbness along her left arm told her that she was severely hurt. But where was the child?

"Marianne!" cried she, in desperation.

"Here I am," answered a tiny voice, seemingly not far from her. "I'm not hurt a bit, only there's something holding me down; and I can see light overhead quite plain. Won't they come and take us out soon?"

"No, there's no hope of that," said the old woman, feebly; "this is the day of doom for us all. Say your prayers, darling, and commend yourself to God."

And upward through the universal ruin, amid shattered rocks and uprooted mountains, stole the child's clear sweet voice, praying the prayer that she had learned at her mother's knee. It rose from that grim chaos of destruction like Jonah's prayer from the depths of the sea, and like it was heard and answered.

How long the two prisoners remained pent up in that living grave they could never have told; but all at once Marianne thought she heard a voice calling her name, and held her breath to listen. Yes, she was not mistaken; there was a voice calling to her, and it was the voice of her father!

Sepel, having seen his wife and the other three children placed in safety far up the opposite hill-side, had hurried back to seek the missing girl. But it was in vain that he looked for any trace of the village or even of the valley itself. The green, sunny uplands, where the laborers had been working and the children frolicking but a few hours before, were now one hideous disorder of fallen rocks, bare gravel, and black cindery dust, amid which he wandered at random, calling despairingly upon his lost darling.

But the answer came at last: a clear, musical call, which rose from a shapeless heap of ruin that even he had failed to recognize as his pretty little cottage. Hurrying to the spot, he began to tear away the rubbish with the strength of a giant, and speedily drew forth the child unhurt, the falling timbers, as if by miracle, having formed a kind of arch over her, completely protecting her from injury.

Brave old Françoise had been less fortunate. Her left arm was so badly hurt that she never recovered the use of it, and to the end of her life she was always timid and nervous from the effects of that terrible night. But, compared with the rest of the ill-fated villagers, she might well esteem herself fortunate. Four-fifths of them were killed on the spot, many more crippled for life, and those who escaped found themselves reduced to absolute beggary. Of Goldau itself nothing remained but the bell of its steeple, which was found more than a mile away. The lower end of Lake Lowertz, farther down the valley, was completely choked up by the falling rocks; and the water thus dislodged rushed in a mighty wave seventy feet high over the island in the centre, sweeping away every living thing upon it. The once happy and beautiful valley is still a frightful desert, and here and there among the surrounding hills you may find some white-haired grandfather who himself witnessed the calamity and will tell you, in his quaint mountain speech, how the Rossberg fell upon Goldau.