When Frank March was drawn to the surface, and said he had been let down into a swift current of water, Mr. Elmer buried his face in his hands, and groaned aloud in the agony of his grief.

"Why did I bring him to this place?" sobbed the stricken man. "To think that his life should be given for mine. If we had only stayed in the North my life might have been taken, but his would have been spared. O, Heavenly Father! what have I done to deserve this blow?"

For some time the others respected his grief, and stood by in silence.

Then Mr. March laid his hand gently on the shoulder of his friend, and said,

"You are indeed afflicted, but there are others of whom you must think besides yourself. His mother and sister need you now as they never needed you before. You must go to them." Turning to Frank, he said, "I will go home with Mr. Elmer, but I want you to ride with Jan in the direction you think this stream takes, and see if you can find its outlet or any other traces of it. There is a bare possibility that we may recover the body."

So they separated, the two gentlemen riding slowly and sadly homeward, and Frank and Jan riding southward with heavy hearts.

They had not gone more than half a mile when they came to a little log-house in the woods, and as the sun had risen, and they and their horses were worn out with their night's work, they decided to stop and ask to be allowed to rest a while, and for something to eat for themselves and their animals.

The owner of the house was a genuine "cracker," or poor white--lean, sallow, and awkward in his movements, but hospitable, as men of his cla.s.s always are. In answer to their request he replied,

"Sartin, sartin; to be sho'. Light down, gentleMEN, and come inside. We 'uns is plain folks, and hain't got much, but sich as we has yo' 'uns is welkim to. Sal, run fo' a bucket of water."

As Frank and Jan entered the house, a little-barefooted, tow-headed girl started off with a bucket. They were hardly seated, and their host had just begun to tell them about his wonderful "nateral well," when a loud scream was heard outside. The next instant the little girl came flying into the house, with a terror-stricken face, and flung herself into her father's arms.

"Why! what is it, gal? So, honey, so! Tell yer daddy what's a-skeering of ye"; and the man tried to soothe the child, and learn the cause of her sudden fright.

At length she managed to sob out, "It's the devvil, pa; the devvil's in our well, an' he hollered at me, an' I drapped the bucket an' run."

At these words Frank sprang to his feet, exclaiming, "What! a voice in the well? And you said it was a natural well, mister? Oh, Jan, can it be?" And then turning fiercely to the man, "Show us to the well, man, quick! What do you sit there staring for?"

Without waiting for a reply he rushed from the door, and running along a little pathway leading from it, was in another minute lying flat on the ground, looking down a hole of about six feet in diameter, and shouting, "Halloo! down there."

Yes, there was an answer, and it was, "Help! he-l-p!"

The two men had followed Frank from the house, and Jan had been thoughtful enough to bring with him the Manila rope that had hung at the pommel of Frank's saddle.

There was no need for words now. Frank hastily knotted the rope under his arms, handed it to Jan, and saying, "Haul up gently when I call,"

slipped over the curb and disappeared.

One, two, three minutes pa.s.sed after the rope slackened in their hands, showing that Frank had reached the bottom, and then those at the top heard, clear and loud from the depths, "Haul away gently."

Very carefully they pulled on that rope, and up, up, up towards the sunlight that his strained eyes had never thought to see again, came Mark Elmer.

When Jan, strong as an ox, but tender as a woman, leaned over the curb and lifted the limp, dripping figure, as it were from the grave, he burst into tears, for he thought the boy was dead. He was still and white, the merry brown eyes were closed, and he did not seem to breathe.

But another was down there, so they laid Mark gently on the gra.s.s, and again lowered the rope into the well.

The figure that appeared as they pulled up this time was just as wet as the other, but full of life and energy.

"Carry him into the house, Jan. He isn't dead. He was alive when I got to him. Put him in a bed, and wrap him up in hot blankets. Rub him with whiskey! slap his feet!--anything!--only fetch him to, while I go for help."

With these words Frank March, wet as a water-spout, and more excited than he had ever been in his life, sprang on his horse and was off like a whirlwind.

That that ride did not kill the horse was no fault of Frank's; for when he was reined sharply up in the "Go Bang" yard, and his rider sprang from his back and into the house at one leap, he staggered and fell, white with foam, and with his breath coming in gasps.

In the sitting-room Mr. Elmer was just trying to break the news of Mark's death to his wife as gently as possible, when the door was flung open, and Frank, breathless, hatless, dripping with water, and pale with excitement, burst into the room shouting,

"He's alive!--he's alive and safe!"

Over and over again did he have to tell the marvellous story of how he had found Mark standing up to his neck in water, at the bottom of a natural well, nearly dead, but still alive; how he had knotted the rope around him and sent him to the top, while he himself stayed down there until the rope could again be lowered; how Mark had fainted, and now lay like dead in a farm-house--before the parents could realize that their son, whom they were a moment before mourning as dead, was still alive.

Then the mules were hitched to the farm-wagon, a feather-bed and many blankets were thrown in, Mr. and Mrs. Elmer, Ruth, and Frank climbed in, and away they went. John Gilpin's ride was tame as compared to the way that wagon flew over the eight miles of rough country between Wakulla and the house in which Mark lay, slowly regaining consciousness.

The meeting between the parents and the son whom they had deemed lost to them was not demonstrative; but none of them, nor of those who saw it, will ever forget the scene.

A solemn "Thank G.o.d!" and "My boy! my darling boy!" were all that was heard; and then Mark was lifted gently into the wagon, and it was driven slowly and carefully home.

An hour after he was tucked into his own bed Mark was in a raging fever, and screaming, "The star! the star! Please let me see it a little longer." And it was many a day before he again left the house, and again breathed the fresh air out-of-doors.

CHAPTER XVII.

TWO LETTERS AND A JOURNEY.

It was late in April before Mark rose from the bed on which for weeks he had tossed and raved in the delirium of fever. He had raved of the horrible darkness and the cold water, and begged that the star should not be taken away. One evening he woke from a heavy, death-like sleep in which he had lain for hours, and in a voice so weak that it was almost a whisper, called "Mother."

"Here I am, dear"; and the figure which had been almost constantly beside him during the long struggle, bent over and kissed him gently.

"I ain't dead, am I, mother?" he whispered.

"No, dear, you are alive, and with G.o.d's help are going to get well and strong again. But don't try to talk now; wait until you are stronger."

For several days the boy lay sleeping, or with eyes wide open watching those about him, but feeling so weak and tired that even to think was an effort. Still, the fever had left him, and from the day he called "Mother" he gradually grew stronger, until finally he could sit up in bed. Next he was moved to a rocking-chair by the window, and at last he was carried into the sitting-room and laid on the lounge--the same lounge on which Frank had lain, months before, when he told them what a wicked boy he had been.

Now the same Frank, but yet an entirely different Frank, sat beside him, and held his hand, and looked lovingly down into his face. Each of them had saved the other's life, and their love for each other was greater than that of brothers. Mark had been told of how Frank had gone down into the "sink hole" after him, and stayed there in the cold, rushing water while he was drawn to the top, but he could remember nothing of it. He only remembered the star, and of praying that he might live to see the sunlight.

How happy they all were when the invalid took his first walk out-of-doors, leaning on Frank, and stopping many times to rest. The air was heavy with the scent of myriads of flowers, and the very birds seemed glad to see him, and sang their loudest and sweetest to welcome him.

After this he improved in strength rapidly, and was soon able to ride as far as the mill, and to float on the river in the canoe, with Frank to paddle it; but still his parents were very anxious about him. He was not their merry, light-hearted Mark of old. He never laughed now, but seemed always to be oppressed with some great dread. His white face wore a frightened look, and he would sit for hours with his mother as she sewed, saying little, but gazing wistfully at her, as though fearful that in some way he might lose her or be taken from her.

All this troubled his parents greatly, and many a consultation did they have as to what they should do for their boy. They decided that he needed an entire change of scene and occupation, but just how to obtain these for him they could not plan.

One day Mrs. Elmer sat down and wrote a long letter to her uncle, Christopher Bangs, telling him of their trouble, and asking him what they should do. To this letter came the following answer:

"BANGOR, MAINE, May 5, 188-.

"DEAR NIECE ELLEN,--You did exactly the right thing, as you always do, in writing to me about Grandneph. Mark. Of course he needs a change of scene after spending a whole night hundreds of feet underground, fighting alligators, and naturally having a fever afterwards. Who wouldn't? I would myself. A good thing's good for a while, but there is such a thing as having too much of a good thing, no matter how good it is, and I rather guess Grandneph. Mark has had too much of Floridy, and it'll do him good to leave it for a while. So just you bundle him up and send him along to me for a change. Tell him his old Grandunk Christmas has got some important business for him to look after, and can't possibly get on without him more than a week or two longer. I shall expect a letter by return mail saying he has started.

"Give Grandunk Christmas's love to Grandniece Ruth, and with respects to your husband, believe me to be, most truly, as ever,