“No,” was the sharp answer.

“To — om — To — o — om!” came the piercing, free, unearthly call. It seemed high and supernatural, almost pure. Fred Brangwen hated it.

It nearly drove him mad. So awfully it sang out, almost like a song.

The water was flowing fuller into the house.

“You'd better go up to Beeby's and bring him and Arthur down, and tell Mrs. Beeby to fetch Wilkinson,” said Fred to Tilly. He forced his mother to go upstairs.

“I know your father is drowned,” she said, in a curious dismay.

The flood rose through the night, till it washed the kettle off the hob in the