CHAPTER TEN. · Part 2

The silence which had descended on the breakfast-table was not broken until Mr Ravenshaw's horse was reported ready at the door. On his way to the main road the old gentleman had to pass close to the summer-house on the knoll so much coveted by Angus Macdonald. There he reined up a few minutes. The position commanded an extensive view, and the aspect of the river was sufficiently alarming. The ice, which by that time had broken up, was rolling and crashing along with inconceivable force before the impetuous torrent. The water had risen to such a height that the lower lands were completely inundated. That it was still rising was made obvious by the fact that the rolling masses at the river-sides were being thrust higher and higher on obstructing points, carrying bushes and trees before them. Even while he gazed a lofty elm that grew on a low part of Angus Macdonald's property was overthrown as if it had been a mere twig, and swept away. Several young maple and oak trees further down shared the same fate a few minutes later.

The house of Angus was full in view. It occupied a mound nearly, though not quite, as high as the knoll on which he stood, and was still, like his own dwelling, far above the reach of the raging flood. The spot where the hut of Peegwish had stood was by that time deep below the surface of the ice-torrent.

Mr Ravenshaw did not remain long in contemplation. The weather, which had been stormy, became suddenly cold, and a blinding fall of sleet induced him to button his greatcoat up to the chin as he hastened away.

Arriving at the mission station after a gallop of several miles, he found a state of things which almost beggars description. Men, women, and children were hurrying to and fro, laden with their chief valuables, or driving carts loaded with household goods, which they deposited on the mission premises for safety, preparatory to the desertion of houses, which was expected to take place on the morrow. Goods of every description were scattered about in wild confusion, for many of the people were half mad with alarm. The missionary, with his assistants, was doing his best to reduce the chaos to order.

Farther up the river Mr Ravenshaw encountered Herr Winklemann bearing a huge arm-chair on his shoulders. "Mine hause is toomed!" he said.

"Doomed? I hope not. Where are you going with the chair?"

"To zee hause of old Liz."

Without waiting for a rejoinder the stout German hurried on, and was soon lost to view among the bushes. Ravenshaw followed him shortly afterwards, and found old Liz arranging and piling away the belongings of Winklemann, who, after depositing the arm-chair by the side of the fire opposite the corner occupied by Daddy, had returned to his doomed house for more. Anxious to know in what condition his friend's house was, the old gentleman took the road to it. The house of old Liz, as we have said, stood high, and well back from the river. It had been made a place of refuge by the nearest neighbours, and was not only filled but surrounded by goods and furniture, as well as live stock. A dense mass of willow bushes, by which the little hut was surrounded, completely shut out the view all round, except backward, in the direction of the prairie, so that Ravenshaw did not come in sight of the spot where the flood had already commenced its work of destruction until he had traversed a footpath for nearly a quarter of a mile. Many wet and weary settlers passed him, however, with their possessions on their backs, and here and there groups of women and children, to all of whom he gave a cheering word of hope and encouragement.

On clearing the bushes the full extent of desolation was presented to view. The river here had overflowed its banks, so that a large part of the country wore the aspect of a lake. Knolls and slight eminences, which in happier times had been scarcely observable, now stood boldly out as conspicuous islets, while many farmhouses were either partly submerged or stood on the margin of the rising waters which beat against them. There was a strong current in some places, elsewhere it was calm; but the river itself was clearly traceable by the turmoil of crashing ice and surging water which marked its course. Men and women were seen everywhere--in the water and out of it--loading carts or barrows with their property, and old people, with children, looked on and shivered, for the thermometer had fallen to five degrees below the freezing-point of Fahrenheit's scale, as indicated by the thermometer at the parsonage. The sleet had ceased, and the wind had fallen, but dark masses of clouds hurried athwart the lowering sky, and the dreary character of the scene was heightened by the poor cattle, which, being turned out of their warm places of shelter, stood on knolls or in the water and lowed piteously.

One of the most conspicuous objects of the scene, from Ravenshaw's point of view, was poor Winklemann's house--a small one which stood on a low spot already surrounded by water. In front of it was Winklemann himself, wading through the flood, without coat or hat, and carrying a large bundle in his arms.

"What have you got there?" asked Ravenshaw, as German went staggering past.

"Mine moder," he replied, and hurried on.

Herr Winklemann had a mother--as old as the hills, according to his own report, and any one who beheld her feeble frame and wrinkled visage might well have believed him. With tender regard for her welfare her stout son had refrained from removing or even alarming her until the last moment, partly from fear that fright and the removal might do her serious injury, and partly from the hope that the flood had reached its highest point; but when the danger to his dwelling became great he resolved to carry her to the hut of old Liz, and, as a preliminary step, had removed her old arm-chair, as we have seen, to be ready for her reception. On returning to the house, however, he found that a portion of the river bank above had unexpectedly given way, diverging the flood a little in that part, so that his dwelling was already a foot deep in water. The old woman, however, lay safely on the bed where Winklemann had placed her, and was either unconscious of, or indifferent to what was going on. She did indeed look a little surprised when her son wrapped the blanket, on which she lay, completely round her, and took her up in his arms as if she had been a little child, but the look of surprise melted into a humorous smile as he drew the last fold over her face. She clearly believed it to be one of her dear boy's little practical jokes, and submitted without a murmur.

Staggering through the flood with her, as we have said, Winklemann carried her to the cottage of old Liz, who received her with tender care, helped to place her in the big chair, and remembering Daddy's tendency to fall into the fire, tied her securely therein.

Meanwhile Winklemann ran back to his house, where he found Mr Ravenshaw and Louis Lambert assisting several men to secure it on its foundations by tying it with ropes to the nearest trees.

Joining these, he lent his powerful aid; but a power greater than his was at work, which could not be resisted. Not only did the water rise at an alarming rate and rush against the house with tremendous violence, but great cakes of ice bore down on it and struck it with such force as to make every timber tremble. Like all the other houses of the settlement, it was built entirely of wood, and had no other foundation than the levelled ground on which its framework stood.

When the water rose considerably above his knees, and ice-floes threatened to sweep him away, Mr Ravenshaw thought it was time for an elderly gentleman to retire. The others continued for some time longer securing the ropes and, with poles, turning aside the ice; but ere long they also were driven to the higher ground, and compelled to stand idly by and watch the work of destruction.

"You've got everything out, I fancy?" asked Lambert.

"Everyt'ing," replied Winklemann, with a deep sigh; "not'ing is left but zee hause."

"An' that won't be left long," observed Mr Ravenshaw, as a huge mass of ice went against its gable-end like a battering-ram.

It seemed to be the leader of a fresh battalion of the destroyer. A succession of ice-floes ran against the house and trees to which it was fastened. An additional rush of water came down at the same time like a wave of the sea. Every one saw that the approaching power was irresistible. The wave, with its ice-laden crest, absolutely roared as it engulfed the bushes. Two goodly elms bowed their heads into the flood and snapped off. The ropes parted like packthread; the building slewed round, reeled for a moment with a drunken air, caught on a shallow spot, and hung there.

"Ach! mine goot old hause--farvell!" exclaimed Winklemann, in tones of deepest pathos.

The house bowed as if in recognition of the old familiar voice, sloped into deeper water, gurgled out its latest breath, like a living thing, through its doors and windows, and sank beneath the wreck and ruin of its old surroundings.

It was what men aptly term a clean sweep, but Winklemann's was not the only house that succumbed to the flood on that occasion. Many besides himself were rendered homeless. That night, (the 4th of May), the waters rose four feet, and the settlers even on the higher grounds began to think of flight.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

THE FLOOD CONTINUES TO DO ITS WORK.

Rapidly and steadily did the waters of the Red River rise, until, overflowing all their banks, they spread out into the plains, and gradually settler after settler retired before the deluge, each forsaking his home at the last moment, and going off in quest of higher ground with his cattle and property.

These high places were not numerous, for the whole region was very level. Many settlers discovered at that time a number of features in the colony which had been unrecognised before, and found refuge on spots which had never been observed as lying above the dead level of the plains. Even these spots were not all safe. Many of them were speedily submerged, and those who had fled to them sought refuge on the still higher knolls, which soon became inconveniently crowded. Some miles from the river there was an elevation of ground named the "Little Mountain," and to this many of the people repaired. It was about as deserving of its title as is a molehill; nevertheless it proved a safe asylum in the end.

Louis Lambert was driven from his home the day after that on which the house of his friend Winklemann was destroyed. His house was a stout one of two storeys, and, owing to its position, was less exposed to the current of the flood than many other dwellings. Confident of its strength and the security of its position, its owner had carried all his goods and furniture to the upper storey, but on returning, after assisting his friend, he found the water in it so high that he feared it might be set afloat--as some of the houses had already been--and finally made up his mind to remove. But where should he remove to? That was the question.

"To zee hause of old Liz," observed his friend. "It is close to hand, an' zere is yet room."

This was true, but Lambert's inclinations turned in the direction of Willow Creek; he therefore protested there was not room.

"No, no," he said; "it's not fair to crowd round old Liz as we are doing. I'll ride down to Ravenshaw's and see if there is room on his ground to place my property. There will be plenty of time. Even if the water should go on rising, which I hope it won't, my house can't float for many hours. Meanwhile, if you'll fetch round the boat, and place some of the heavy goods in it, you'll be doing me a good turn."

"Vell, vell," muttered the German, as he looked after his friend with a quiet smile and a shake of the head, "dere is no madness like lof! Ven a man falls in lof he becomes blind, qvite blind!"

The blind one, meanwhile, mounted his steed and galloped away on the wings of "lof." Lambert was a reckless rider, and an impatient though good-natured fellow. He dashed at full speed through shallow places, where the floods were creeping with insidious, tide-like persistency over the farm-lands, and forded some of the creeks, which almost rendered swimming unavoidable; but in spite of his daring he was compelled to make many a vexatious detour in his headlong course down to Willow Creek. On the way his mind, pre-occupied though it was, could not escape being much affected by the scenes of devastation through which he passed. Everywhere near the river houses were to be seen standing several feet deep in water, while their owners were either engaged in conveying their contents in boats and canoes to the nearest eminences, or removing them from such eminences in carts to spots of greater security. Some of the owners of these deserted houses had become so reckless or so despairing under their misfortunes, that they offered to sell them for merely nominal sums. It is said that some of them changed hands for so small a sum as thirty shillings or two pounds.

Cantering round the corner of a fence, Lambert came within a hundred yards of a house round which the water was deep enough to float a large boat. Here he observed his friends, John Flett and David Mowat, embarking household goods into a large canoe out of the parlour window. Riding into the water, Lambert hailed them.

"Hallo, Flett, d'ee want help?"

"Thank 'ee, no; this is the last load. Got all the rest down to the church; the minister is lettin' us stow things in the loft."

"You're in too great haste, Flett," returned Lambert. "The water can't rise much higher; your place is sure to stand."

"Not so sure o' that, Louis; there's a report brought in by a redskin that all the country between the sources of the Assinaboine and Missouri is turned into a sea, and the waters o' the Missouri itself are passing down to Lake Winnipeg. He says, too, that a whole village of redskins has been swept away."

"Bah! it's not true," said Lambert.

"True or false," rejoined Flett, resuming his work, "it's time for me to clear out o' this."

Forsaking the road, which he had hitherto attempted to follow, Lambert now stretched out at full gallop into the plains. He came to a small creek and found that the simple wooden bridge had been washed away, and that the waters of the river were driving its tiny current in the wrong direction. In a fit of impatience he applied the whip to his steed, which, being a fiery one, rushed furiously at the creek. Fire does not necessarily give an untrained horse power to leap. The animal made an awkward attempt to stop, failed, made a still more awkward attempt to jump, failed again, and stumbled headlong into the creek, out of which he and his master scrambled on the opposite side.

Lambert shook himself, laughed, leaped into the saddle, and went off again at full speed. He came to the mission station, but did not stop there. It still stood high above the waters, and was crowded with settlers. Not far from it was a spot of rising ground, which was covered with more than a hundred tents and wigwams belonging to Canadian and half-breed families. Passing on, he came upon other scenes of destruction, and finally arrived at the abode of old Mr Ravenshaw. It, like the mission premises, still stood high above the rising flood. The family were assembled in the chief sitting-room, old Ravenshaw enjoying a pipe, while the ladies were variously occupied around him.

"You've heard the report brought by the Indian about the flood, I fancy?"

"Oh, yes; but I give no ear to reports," said the old gentleman, emitting an indignant puff of smoke; "they often end like _that_."

"True; nevertheless, it's as well to be prepared," said Lambert, with a glance at Elsie and Cora, who sat together near the window; "and I've come to beg for house-room for my goods and chattels, for the old house is not so safe as I had thought."

"There's plenty of room in the barn for people in distress," said Elsie, with a glance at her sister.

"Or in the cow-house," added Cora, with a laugh and a slight toss of her head; "we've had the cattle removed on purpose to make room for you."

"How considerate! And the cow-house of Willow Creek, with its pleasant associations, is a palace compared to the hall of any other mansion," said the gallant Louis.

A crash was heard outside just then. On looking from the windows, a great cake of ice about five feet thick, with a point like a church spire, was seen attempting, as it were, to leap the lower end of the garden-fence. It failed; but on making a second attempt was more successful. The fence went slowly down, and the spire laid its head among the vegetables, or rather on the spot where the vegetables would have been had the season been propitious. It was accompanied by a rush of water.

The sight was viewed with comparative composure by old Mr Ravenshaw, but his better half took it less quietly, and declared that they would all be drowned.

"I hope not!" exclaimed Miss Trim fervently, clasping her hands.

"We're high and dry just now, Louis," said Mr Ravenshaw gravely, "but Willow Creek won't be a place of refuge long if the rise goes on at this rate. See, my neighbour is beginning to show signs of uneasiness, though the ground on which he stands is not much lower than my own."

As he spoke, the old fur-trader pointed to the house of Angus Macdonald, where a large cart was being loaded with his property.

Angus himself entered at the moment to beg leave to remove some of his valuables to his friend's barn.

"It iss not the danger, you see, Muster Ruvnshaw, that troubles me; it iss the watter. There are some things, as the leddies fery well know, will pe quite destroyed py watter, an' it is puttin' them out of harm's way that I will pe after."

"Put whatever you like in the barn, Macdonald," said Mr Ravenshaw promptly; "Elsie and I have had it and the other outhouses prepared. You are heartily welcome. I hope, however, that the water won't rise much higher."

"The watter will rise higher, Muster Ruvnshaw," returned Angus, with the decision of an oracle; "an' it will pe goot for us if it will leave our houses standin' where they are. Peegwish will be tellin' me that; an' Peegwish knows what he iss apout when he is not trunk, whatever."

Peegwish did indeed know what he was about. At the very time that Angus was speaking about him, Peegwish, feeling convinced that Macdonald's house was in danger, was on his way to the mission station, which he knew to be a place of greater safety, and where he felt sure of a welcome, for the Reverend Mr Cockran--in charge at the time--had a weakness for the old hypocrite, and entertained strong hopes of bringing about his reformation. For two days he stayed in the parsonage kitchen, smoking his pipe, revelling in the odds and ends, such as knuckle-bones, stray bits of fat and tripe, which fell to his lot, and proudly exhibiting himself in one of the minister's cast-off black coats, which contrasted rather oddly with a pair of ornamented blue leggings and a scarlet sash. When not busy in the kitchen, he went about among the homeless settlers assembled round the mission, sometimes rendering a little help, oftener causing a good deal of obstruction, and vainly endeavouring to obtain beer, while he meditated sadly now and then on his failure in the brewing line.

At the end of these two days, however, a great change took place at the mission station, for the flood continued steadily to increase until it reached the church and parsonage, and drove the hundreds of people who had assembled there away to the more distant knolls on the plains. Mr Cockran, with his household and Sabbath scholars, besides a few of the people, resolved to stick to the church as long as it should stick to the ground, and Peegwish remained with them. He had unbounded confidence in the good missionary, and still more unbounded confidence in the resources of the parsonage kitchen. Wildcat was similarly impressed.

At last the water rose to the church itself and beat against the foundations of the parsonage, for the current was very strong and had carried away some of the fences. All the people were thus obliged to take refuge in the church itself, or in the parsonage.

On the 13th of May there were very few dry spots visible on or near the banks of the Red River. Dozens of houses had been carried away, and were either destroyed or stranded on localities far from their original sites. As far as the eye could reach, the whole region had been converted into a mighty lake, or rather sea; for in the direction of the plains the waters seemed to join the horizon. Everywhere this sea was studded with islets and knolls, which grew fewer and smaller as the floods increased. Here and there piles of floating firewood looked like boats with square-sails in the distance, while deserted huts passed over the plains with the stream like fleets of Noah's arks!

When the water began to touch the parsonage, its owner gave orders to collect timber and make preparation for the erection of a strong stage as a final place of refuge.

"Come," said he to Peegwish, when his orders were being carried out; "come, get your canoe, Peegwish, and we will pay a visit to the poor fellows on the knoll up the river."

The Indian waded to a spot close by, where his canoe was fastened to a post, and brought it to the door, after the fashion of a gondolier of Venice. The faithful Wildcat took the bow paddle; the clergyman stepped into the middle of the craft and sat down.

They shot swiftly away, and were soon out of sight. The day was calm and warm, but the sky had a lurid, heavy appearance, which seemed to indicate the approach of bad weather. Paddling carefully along to avoid running against sunk fences, they soon came into the open plains, and felt as though they had passed out upon the broad bosom of Lake Winnipeg itself. Far up the river--whose course was by that time chiefly discernible by empty houses, and trees, as well as bushes, half-submerged--they came in sight of a stage which had been erected beside a cottage. It stood only eighteen inches out of the water, and here several women and children were found engaged in singing Watts' hymns. They seemed quite comfortable, under a sort of tarpaulin tent, with plenty to eat, and declined to be taken off, though their visitors offered to remove them one at a time, the canoe being unable to take more. Further up, the voyagers came to the hut of old Liz.

This hut was by that time so nearly touched by the water that all the people who had formerly crowded round it had forsaken it and made for the so-called mountain. Only Liz herself remained, and Herr Winklemann, to take care of their respective parents.

"Do you think it safe to stay?" asked the clergyman, as he was about to leave.

"Safe, ya; qvite safe. Besides, I have big canoe, vich can holt us all."

"Good-bye, then, and remember, if you want anything that I can give you, just paddle down to the station and ask for it. Say I sent you."

"Ya, I vill go down," said Herr Winklemann gratefully. And Herr Winklemann _did_ go down, much to his own subsequent discomfiture and sorrow, as we shall see.

Meanwhile Mr Cockran reached the knoll which he had set out to visit. It was of considerable extent, and crowded with a very miscellaneous, noisy, and quarrelsome crew, of all sorts, ages, and colours, in tents and wigwams and extemporised shelters.

They received the clergyman heartily, however, and were much benefited by his visit, as was made apparent by the complete though temporary cessation of quarrelling.

The elements, however, began to quarrel that evening. Mr Cockran had intended to return home, but a gale of contrary wind stopped him, and he was fain to accept the hospitality of a farmer's tent. That night the storm raged with fury. Thunder and lightning added to the grandeur as well as to the discomfort of the scene. Some time after midnight a gust of wind of extreme fury threw down the farmer's tent, and the pole hit the farmer on the nose! Thus rudely roused, he sprang up and accidentally knocked down Peegwish, who happened to be in his way. They both fell on the minister, who, being a powerful man, caught them in a bear-like grasp and held them, under the impression that they had overturned the tent in a quarrel while he was asleep.

At that moment a cry of fire was raised. It was found that a spark from a tent which stood on the windward side of the camp had caught the long grass, and a terrestrial conflagration was added to the celestial commotions of the night. It was a moment of extreme peril, for the old grass was plentiful and sufficiently dry to burn. It is probable that the whole camp would have been destroyed but for a providential deluge of rain which fell at the time and effectually put the fire out.

Of course Mr Cockran became very anxious about those he had left at home, for the storm had increased the danger of their position considerably. Happily, with the dawn the gale moderated. The improvement did not, indeed, render canoeing safe, for the white-crested waves of that temporary sea still lashed the shores of the new-made islet; but the case was urgent, therefore the clergyman launched his canoe, and, with Peegwish and the faithful Wildcat, steered for the station.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

WINKLEMANN AND OLD LIZ GET INTO TROUBLE.

At the parsonage, before the storm had fairly begun, the canoe party was thought of with considerable anxiety, for Mrs Cockran knew how frail the craft was in which her husband had embarked, and among the sixty-three persons who had taken refuge with her not one was capable of taking command of the rest in a case of emergency. Great, therefore, was her satisfaction when Herr Winklemann appeared in his canoe with a request for a barrel of flour.

"You shall have one," said Mrs Cockran, "and anything else you may require; but pray do not leave me to-night. I can give you a comfortable bed, and will let you go the moment my husband returns. I fully expect him this evening."

"Madam," answered the gallant Winklemann, with a perplexed look, "you is vere goot, bot de gale vill be rise qvickly, an' I dares not leaf mine moder vidout protection."

"Oh! but just stay for an hour or two," entreated Mrs Cockran, "and show the people how to go on with the stage. Perhaps my husband may return sooner than we expect. Perhaps the storm may not come on; many such threatenings, you know, come to nothing."

Winklemann looked anxiously up at the sky and shook his head, but the entreaties of the lady prevailed. The good-natured German consented to remain for a "ver leetle" time, and at once set about urging on and directing the erection of the stage. This stage was planned to be a substantial platform about thirty feet square, supported on posts firmly driven into the ground, so that the water might pass freely under it. In the event of the parsonage becoming untenable it would form a refuge of comparative safety.

It was while Winklemann was busily engaged on the stage that the storm broke forth which compelled the clergyman to spend the night on the islet, as already described. Of course the storm also forced Winklemann to remain at the station. But that impulsive youth's regard for his "moder" would not permit of his giving in without a struggle. When he saw that the gale increased rapidly, he resolved to start off without delay. He launched his canoe; a half-breed in his employment managed the bow paddle, but they found that their united strength was insufficient to drive the craft more than a hundred yards against wind and waves. Returning to the station, Winklemann engaged two additional men to aid him, but the increasing gale neutralised the extra force. After a vain struggle the canoe was hurled back on the knoll, a wave caught the bow, overturned it, and threw the men into the water at the very door of the parsonage.

The canoe was partially broken. Time was required to repair it. Time also gave the gale opportunity to gather power, and thus the chafing German was compelled to spend the night at the station.

Meanwhile, those men whom he had left behind him spent a terrible night, but the brunt of the trouble fell upon old Liz.

Poor old Liz! She was a squat piece of indomitable energy, utterly regardless of herself and earnestly solicitous about every one else.

When the storm commenced, her dwelling had begun to show symptoms of instability. This fact she carefully concealed from Daddy and old Mrs Winklemann, who remained in their respective chairs smiling at each other, for both were accustomed to good treatment from their children, and regarded life in general from a sunny point of view. They knew that something very unusual was going on, but the old frau said--or thought-- to herself, "My boy will look after me!" while Daddy said, or thought, "Liz knows all about it." Happy trustful spirits! Enviable pair!

Having informed the pair that she was going away for a minute or two to look after something outside, old Liz left them. She found herself up to the knees in water, of course, the moment she passed the doorway. From an outhouse she procured a strong rope. This she fastened to a large iron ring in the side of the hut, and attached the other end to a thick tree whose branches overshadowed it. Even during the brief time she was thus engaged the flood increased so rapidly, and the rising wind blew so wildly, that the poor creature was almost carried off her short legs. But old Liz had a powerful will, and was strong-hearted. Having accomplished her object, and lost for ever her frilled cap in so doing, she struggled back towards the door of the hut. A passing billet of firewood tripped her up and sent her headlong into the flood. She disappeared, but emerged instantly, with glaring eyes, gasping mouth, and streaming hair. A resolute rush brought her to the door-step; she seized the door-post, and was saved.

"Hech! but it's an awfu' time," gasped old Liz, as she wrung the water from her garments.--"Comin', Daddy! I'll be their this meenit. I've gotten mysel' a wee wat."

"What's wrang?" asked Daddy, in a feeble voice, as his ancient daughter entered.

"It's only a bit spate, Daddy. The hoose is a'maist soomin', but ye've nae need to fear."

"I'm no' feared, Liz. What wad I be feared o' whan ye're there?"

"Ver is mine boy?" demanded old Mrs Winklemann, looking round.

"He's gane to the kirk for floor. Ne'er fash yer heed aboot _him_. He'll be back afore lang."

The old woman seemed content, though she did not understand a word of Liz's Scotch.

"Bless mine boy," she said, with a mild smile at Daddy, who replied with an amiable nod.

But this state of comparative comfort did not last long. In half an hour the water came over the threshold of the door and flooded the floor. Fortunately the old couple had their feet on wooden stools and thus escaped the first rush, but old Liz now felt that something must be done to keep them dry. There was a low table in the room. She dragged it out and placed it between the couple, who smiled, under the impression, no doubt, that they were about to have their evening meal.

"Daddy, I'm gaun to pit yer legs on the table. It'll be mair comfortabler, an'll keep ye oot o' the wat."

Daddy submitted with a good grace, and felt more easy than usual, the table being very little higher than his chair. Mrs Winklemann was equally submissive and pleased. Covering the two pairs of legs with a blanket, old Liz produced some bread and cheese, and served out rations thereof to keep their minds engaged. She plumed herself not a little on the success of the table-and-legs device, but as the water rose rapidly she became anxious again, though not for herself. She waded about the hut with supreme indifference to the condition of her own lower limbs. At last she mounted upon the bed and watched, as the water rose inch by inch on the legs of the two chairs.

"What _wull_ I do whan it grups them?" she muttered, experiencing that deep feeling of anticipation with which one might watch the gradual approach of fire to gunpowder.

The objects of her solicitude snored pleasantly in concert.

"It'll kill them wi' the cauld, to say naething o' the start," continued the old woman with deepening, almost desperate, anxiety. "Oh man, man, what for did ye leave us?"

This apostrophe was addressed to the absent Winklemann.

One inch more, five minutes longer, and the flood would reach the bodies of the old couple. Liz looked round wildly for some mode of delivering them, but looked in vain. Even if her strength had been adequate, there was no higher object in the room to which she could have lifted them. The bed, being a truckle one, and lower than the chairs, was already submerged, and old Liz herself was coolly, if not calmly, seated in two inches of water. At the very last moment deliverance came in an unexpected manner. There was a slight vibration in the timbers of the hut, then a sliding of the whole edifice. This was followed by a snap and a jolt: the ring-bolt or the rope had gone, and old Liz might, with perfect propriety, have exclaimed, in the words of the sea song, "I'm afloat! I'm afloat! and the Rover is free!"

For one moment her heart failed; she had read of Noah's ark, but had never quite believed in the stability of that mansion. Her want of faith was now rebuked, for the old hut floated admirably, as seamen might say, on an even keel. True, it committed a violent assault on a tree at starting, which sent it spinning round, and went crashing through a mass of drowned bushes, which rendered it again steady; but these mishaps only served to prove the seaworthiness of her ark, and in a few minutes the brave little woman revived. Splashing off the bed and spluttering across the room, she tried to open the door with a view to see what had happened and whither they were bound, for the two windows of the mansion were useless in this respect, being fitted with parchment instead of glass. But the door was fast, and refused to open.

"We'll a' be lost!" exclaimed Daddy, in alarm, for he had been awakened by the shock against the tree, and was now slightly alive to their danger.

"Ver is mine boy?" asked the old frau, in a whimpering voice.

"Nae fear o' 'ee," said Liz, in a soothing tone. "Him that saved Noah can save us."

"Open the door an' see where we are, lassie," said the old man.

"It'll no' open, Daddy."

"Try the wundy, then."

"I'm sweer'd to break the wundy," said Liz. "Losh, man, I'll try the lum!"

The chimney, to which old Liz referred, was capacious enough to admit a larger frame than hers. Moreover, it was a short one, and the fire had long ago been drowned out. With the enthusiasm of an explorer, the little woman stooped and entered the fireplace. She felt about inside for a few moments, and in doing so brought down an enormous quantity of soot. Immediately there was a tremendous coughing in the chimney.

"Lassie! lassie! come oot! Ve'll be chokit," cried Daddy, in alarm.

"Hoots, man, hand yer gab," was the polite reply.

Liz was not to be easily turned from her purpose. Raising one leg up she found a crevice for her right foot, and the aged couple beheld the old creature, for the first time, in the attitude of a _danseuse_, standing on one toe. Next moment the remaining leg went up, and she disappeared from view. If there had been any one outside, the old woman would have been seen, two minutes later, to emerge from the chimney-top with the conventional aspect of a demon--as black as a Zulu chief, choking like a chimpanzee with influenza, and her hair blowing freely in the wind. Only those who have intelligently studied the appearance of chimney-sweeps can form a proper idea of her appearance, especially when she recovered breath and smiled, as she thought of her peculiar position.

But that position was one which would have damped the courage of any one except old Liz. The storm was beginning to grow furious; the sun, which had already set, was tingeing the black and threatening clouds with dingy red. Far as the eye could reach, the once green prairie presented an angry sea, whose inky waves were crested and flecked with foam, and the current was drifting the hut away into the abyss of blackness that seemed to gape on the horizon.

"What see ye, Liz?" cried Daddy, bending a little, so as to send his voice up the chimney.

"I see naethin' but watter; watter everywhere," said Liz, unconsciously quoting the Ancient Mariner, and bending so as to send her reply down. She did more; she lost her balance, and sent herself down to the bottom of the chimney, where she arrived in a sitting posture with a flop, perhaps we should say a squash, seeing that she alighted in water, which squirted violently all over her sooty person.

This sudden reappearance astonished the aged couple almost more than it surprised Liz herself, for she could not see herself as they saw her.

"Hech! but that _was_ a klyte; but ne'er heed, Daddy. I'm nane the waur. Eh, but I'll ha'e to clean mysel'," said old Liz, rising slowly and going straight to a corner cupboard, whence she took a slab of soap, and began to apply it vigorously, using the entire room, so to speak, as a wash-tub. The result was unsatisfactory; beginning the process as a pure black, she only ended it as an impure mulatto, but she was content, and immediately after set herself to fasten the aged pair more securely in their chairs, and to arrange their limbs more comfortably on the table; after that she lighted a candle and sat down on the sloppy bed to watch.

Thus that household spent the night, rocked, as it were, on the cradle of the deep.

At daylight Herr Winklemann rose from his sleepless couch at the parsonage, and finding that the wind had moderated, launched his canoe. He left the mission station just an hour before Mr Cockran returned to it.

Anxious was the heart of the poor youth as he wielded the paddle that morning, and many were the muttered remarks which he made to himself, in German, as he urged the canoe against wind and current. As he neared home his fears increased. On reaching a certain part from which he had been wont to descry the chimney of old Liz's hut, he perceived that the familiar object was gone, and uttered a mighty roar of horror.

The half-breed in the bow ceased paddling, and looked back in alarm.

"Git on, you brute!" shouted Winklemann, at the same time exerting his great strength as though he meant to urge the light craft out of the water into the air.

A few minutes more and they swept round into the space where the hut had once stood. There was nothing left but the bit of rope that had been made fast to the ring-bolt. Poor Winklemann let his paddle drop and sank almost double with his face in his hands.

"Mine moder," was all he could say, as he groaned heavily. In a few seconds he recovered with a start and bade the man in the bow paddle for his life.

Winklemann, of course, knew that the house must have floated downwards with the current, if it had not been utterly overwhelmed. He directed his search accordingly, but the breadth of land now covered by the flood caused the currents to vary in an uncertain manner, as every ridge, or knoll, or hollow in the plains modified them. Still, there could be only one general direction. After a few minutes of anxious reflection the bereaved man resolved to keep by the main current of the river. He was unfortunate in this, for the hut, in commencing its adventurous career, had gone off in the direction of the plains. All day he and his companion paddled about in search of the lost family, but in vain. At night they were forced to return to the parsonage for a little food and rest, so as to fit them for a renewal of the search on the following morning.

At the mission station they found Mr Cockran, with his wife and forty of his people, established on the stage. Early in the day the water had burst into the parsonage, and soon stood a foot deep on the floor, so that the pastor deemed it high time to forsake it and take to the last refuge. It was a crowded stage, and great was the anxiety of many of the mothers upon it lest their little ones should be thrust over the edge into the water. No such anxiety troubled the little ones themselves. With that freedom from care which is their high privilege, they even gambolled on the brink of destruction.

Next day was the Sabbath. To go to church was impossible. There were three and a half feet of water in that building. The day was fine, however, and sunny. The pastor, therefore, had service on the stage, and being an earnest, intelligent man, he made good use of the floods and the peculiarity of their circumstances to illustrate and enforce his discourse.

Long before the hour of worship had arrived, however, poor Winklemann went off in his canoe, and spent the whole of that day, as he spent several succeeding days, in anxious, diligent, hopeful, but finally despairing search for his lost old "moder."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE WAVES STILL RISE, AND MISS TRIM COMES TO GRIEF.

On the night of the 15th the gale broke out again with redoubled fury, and the stage at the mission station was shaken so much by the violence of the waves and wind that fears were entertained of its stability, despite its great strength. The water rose six inches during that night, and when the vast extent of the floods is taken into account, this rise was prodigious. The current was also so strong that it was feared the church itself, with the property and people in its loft, would be swept away.

Towards daylight a boat was seen approaching. It turned out to be that of Mr Ravenshaw, containing himself and Lambert, with a crew from Willow Creek. The house of the old gentleman had, he said, much water in the lower rooms, so that he had been driven to its upper floor; but he felt sure of its strength, having himself helped to lay its foundations. Knowing the danger of those who dwelt in the parsonage, he had come to offer an asylum to as many as his house would hold. But Mr Cockran declined to quit his post. The gale was by that time abating, the cheering daylight increasing; and as he had a large boat of his own moored to a neighbouring post, he preferred to remain where he was. Mr Ravenshaw therefore ordered Louis to hoist the sail, and bidding adieu to the clerical party, returned to Willow Creek.

Of all the household there, Miss Trim had viewed the approach of the water with the greatest anxiety and Mrs Ravenshaw with the greatest philosophy. Miss Trim, being an early riser, was the first to observe the enemy on the morning of its entrance. She came down-stairs and found the water entering the house quietly by the sides, oozing from under the boards and secretly creeping along till it covered the floors. She rushed up-stairs to alarm Mr Ravenshaw, and met that active old gentleman coming down. He set to work at once to rescue his goods on the lower floor, while Miss Trim, in great excitement, went and roused the girls, who leaped up at once. Then she went to Mrs Ravenshaw's room.

"Oh, Mrs Ravenshaw, get up quick; the flood is coming in at last--over the floors--through the chinks--up the seams--everywhere--do--do get up! We shall all be--"

She stopped. A long-drawn sigh and a gentle "hush!" was all the reply vouchsafed by Mrs Ravenshaw.

A quarter of an hour later Miss Trim came nervously back. "It's _rushing_ in now like anything! Oh, _do_ get up! We may have to fly! The boards of the floor have been forced up, and they've had to take the door off its hinges--"

She stopped again. Mrs Ravenshaw, with placid face and closed eyes, had replied with another gentle "hush-sh!"

Descending once more, Miss Trim was met by a sudden stream, which had burst in the back door. Rushing again into the old lady's bedroom, she cried vehemently, "Woman! _won't_ you get up?"

"Why should I?" asked the other in a sleepy tone. "Isn't Samuel looking after it?"

"Of course he is, but--"

"Well, well," interrupted the old lady, a little testily, "if _he's_ there it's all right. _He_ knows what to do, I don't. Neither do you, Miss Trim; so pray go away and let me sleep."

Poor Miss Trim retired discomfited. Afterwards when the family were driven to the upper storey of the dwelling she learned to regard things with something of Mrs Ravenshaw's philosophy.

One morning at daylight there was a calm so profound that the sleepers at Willow Creek were not awakened until the sun rose in a cloudless sky and glittered over the new-born sea with ineffable splendour. It was a strange and sad though beautiful sight. Where these waters lay like a sheet of glass, spreading out to the scarce visible horizon, the grass-waves of the prairie had rolled in days gone by. There were still some knolls visible, some tops of trees and bushes, like islets on the sea, and one or two square masses of drift-wood floating slowly along with the now imperceptible current, like boats under full sail. Here and there could be seen several wooden houses and barns, some of which had come down from the upper parts of the settlement, like the hut of old Liz, and were stranded awkwardly on shoals, while others were still drifting over the watery waste.

All this was clearly visible from the windows of the upper room, in which slept the sisters Elsie and Cora, and presented itself to the former when she awoke like a vision of fairyland. Unable to believe her eyes, she rubbed them with her pretty little knuckles, and gazed again.

"How beautiful!" she exclaimed.

The exclamation awoke Cora, who sat up and yawned. Then she looked at her sister, and being only half-awake, smiled in an imbecile manner.

"Isn't it?" asked Elsie.

"Splendid!" replied Cora, turning to the windows. "Oh, I'm _so_ sleepy!"

She sank on the pillow again and shut her eyes.

"Come, Cora, let us finish the discussion we began last night about Louis Lambert," said Elsie, with an arch smile.

"No, I won't! Let me sleep. I hate Louis Lambert!" said Cora, with a shake of her uppermost shoulder.

Elsie laughed and rose; she was already dressed. Mr Ravenshaw had on the previous night ordered both his daughters to lie down in their clothes, as no one could tell what might happen to the house at any moment. The flood had not yet begun to abate; Elsie could tell that, as she sat arranging her hair, from the sound of water gurgling through the lower rooms.

We have said that the Ravenshaws had been driven by the floods to the upper floor of their residence. This floor consisted of three bedrooms and a lumber-room. One of the bedrooms was very small and belonged to the sisters, to whose sole use it was apportioned. For convenience, the other two rooms were set apart on this occasion as the male and the female rooms of the establishment, one being used by as many of the women as could get comfortably into it, the other by the men. The overflow of the household, including those neighbours who had sought refuge with the family, were accommodated in the adjoining barn, between which and the main building communication was kept up by means of a canoe, with Peegwish and Wildcat as the ferrymen. The lumber-room having had most of its lumber removed, was converted into a general hall, or _salon_, where the imprisoned family had their meals, received their friends, and discussed their trials. It was a rather dusty place, with sloping roof, no ceiling, and cross-beams, that caused cross tempers in those who ran against them. In one corner a door, removed from its hinges, did duty as a dresser. In another Mr Ravenshaw had erected a small stove, on which, being rather proud of his knowledge of cookery, he busied himself in spoiling a good deal of excellent food. A couple of planks, laid on two trunks, served for a table. Such cooking utensils and such portions of light furniture as were required had been brought up from the rooms below, that which was left having been weighted with large stones to prevent its being carried away, for the lower doors and windows had been removed to prevent their being driven in or out, as the case might be.

So complete was the destruction everywhere, that Samuel Ravenshaw had passed into a gleeful state of recklessness, and appeared to enjoy the fun of thus roughing it rather than otherwise, to the amusement of his amiable wife, who beheld his wasteful and daring culinary efforts without a murmur, and to the horror of Miss Trim, who was called upon to assist in and share the triumphs as well as the dangers of these efforts.

"Fetch the pepper now, Miss Trim. That's it, thank 'ee.--Hallo! I say, the top has come off that rascally thing, and half the contents have gone into the pan!"

He was engaged in frying a mess of pemmican and flour, of which provender he had secured enough to stand a siege of at least six months' duration.

"Never mind," he continued; "in with more flour and more pemmican. That's your sort. It'll make it taste more like curry, which is hot enough, in all conscience."

"But pepper is not like curry," said Miss Trim, who had a brother in India, and was consequently a secondhand authority on Indian affairs. "Curry is hot, no doubt, and what one may call a seasoning; but it has not the flavour of pepper at all, and is not the colour of it, and--"

"Yes, yes, _I_ know all about that, Miss Trim. Why, there's a box of it, isn't there, in the little cupboard on the stair? I quite forgot it. Fetch it, please, and we'll have real pemmican curry; and rouse up my lazy girls as you pass. Don't disturb Mrs R, though. The proverb says, `Let sleeping'--no, I don't mean _that_ exactly. By the way, don't slip on the stair. The water's about up to that cupboard. Mind, there are six feet water or more in the passage now, and if--"

He stopped, for Miss Trim had already left the room, just as Lambert entered it.

The cupboard to which Miss Trim had been sent was an angular one, let into the wall to utilise a crooked corner. The step of the stair immediately below it was the last dry one of the flight. From that step to the bottom was held by the flood, which gurgled oilily through the deserted basement. Descending to that step with caution, and gazing anxiously at her own image reflected below, she opened the cupboard door.

Now, it chanced that Angus Macdonald's Cochin-China hen, having been driven from its own home by the flood, had strayed into Mr Ravenshaw's house and established itself, uninvited, in the cupboard. It received Miss Trim with a croak of indignation and a flutter. Starting back with a slight, "Oh!" the poor lady fell; and who shall adequately describe, or even imagine, the effects of that fall? Many a time had Miss Trim descended that stair and passage on her feet, but never until then had she done so on her back, like a mermaid or a seal! Coming to the surface immediately, she filled the house with a yell that almost choked the hearers, caused old Ravenshaw to heave the pemmican curry into the lap of Lambert, and induced Lambert himself to leap down-stairs to the rescue like a harlequin. The bold youth had to swim for it! A gurgle at the far end of the passage told where Miss Trim was going down, like wedding announcements, for the third and last time. Lambert went in like an otter, caught the lady in his arms, and bore her to the staircase, and thence to the upper floor in a few minutes. She was at once taken to the sisters' bedroom, and there restored to life and lamentation.

"My dear," said Mr Ravenshaw to his wife when she appeared, "you'd better look after our breakfast--I've made a mess of it, and I'll go over to Angus Macdonald and invite him and his household to come and stay with us. Their house must be almost afloat by this time."

The old gentleman hailed Peegwish, who was outside in the canoe at the moment.

That would-be brewer at once made for the house, paddled his canoe through the doorway and up the passage to the staircase, where Wildcat, who managed the bow paddle, held on by the bannister while Mr Ravenshaw embarked. Reissuing from the doorway, they made for their neighbour's residence.

Macdonald's house had indeed become almost uninhabitable. It stood so deep in the water that only the upper windows were visible. The chimneys and roofs of some of the outhouses formed, with the main building and a few tree-tops, a small Archipelago.

"You are fery kind, Mr Ruvnshaw," said Angus from an upper window, beneath which the canoe floated. "It iss not improbaple that my house will pe goin' down the river like a post, but that iss nothing--not anything at all--when there will pe such a destruction goin' on all over the settlement whatever. It iss fery coot of you, oo ay. I will put my fuddle into the canoe, an' my sister she will pe ready at wance.--Wass you ready, Martha?"

A voice from the interior intimated that Miss Martha would be, "ready in two minutes."

"Pe quick, then," said Macdonald, looking inwards while he lowered his violin, to which he was passionately attached, into the canoe, "you hef not much time to waste, Martha, for it wass time we will pe goin'."

In a few minutes Angus Macdonald's house was abandoned to its fate, and himself and sister, with a couple of domestics, were added to the number of refugees who crowded to the abode of hospitable Sam Ravenshaw.

"Hef you forgotten the cawtie?" asked Angus of his sister, while assisting her to land on the steps from which Miss Trim had taken her dive.

"No, Angus, I've got it in my basket, but I fear the poor old hen has been lost. It's all over the house I sought for it before comin' away, but--"

A triumphant cackle from the cupboard overhead interrupted Miss Martha.

"Ha! ha!" shouted Mr Ravenshaw; "thats where the sound came from this morning! And I do believe it must have been that brute which caused Miss Trim to fall into the water."

With a twinkle in his eye, the old gentleman related the incident of the morning, while Angus, with a grim expression, kept his eye on Beauty, who gazed inquiringly out at the half-open door of her retreat.

"It iss a pad craitur you've peen--fery pad--ever since I got you, but it iss no more mischief you will pe dooin' after this--whatever."

Angus seized the unfortunate hen by the neck as he spoke, and flung it along the passage, where it fell into the water, and went cackling and choking through the doorway.

Beauty's powers were varied as well as surprising. Although thus, for the first time in her life, compelled to take to the water, she swam as well as any duck, and went straight off as if by instinct, to the forsaken house. From the window of the lumber-room Angus saw her reach it, scramble, somehow, on to its roof, and there utter a crow of defiance that would have done credit to her defunct husband. There was one other object besides his own house and surroundings which Angus saw from that window. It was the smoking-box on the willow-clad knoll, which formed a separate island in the flood. The sight stirred up unpleasant recollections. He turned from the window, and gave his attention to the substantial breakfast to which his host invited him.

The greater part of that day was spent in rearranging the habitable parts of Willow Creek, and placing the more delicate valuables further out of danger. At night candles were lighted, fresh wood was heaped up in the stove, and the lumber-room became comparatively comfortable.

"Will you play us a tune, Angus?" said Louis Lambert, drawing a stool between Elsie and Cora and sitting down. "The ladies, you know, never tire of your music."

"I hef not anything new," replied Angus, with becoming modesty; "but if the leddies wass willin' to listen to some o' the old tunes, my fuddle an' I will try what we can do."

"We love the old tunes best," said Cora.

As every one else echoed the sentiment, Angus, nothing loath, began to discourse sweet sounds, which, to say truth, were indeed very sweet, and mingled not inharmoniously with the sound of waters which gurgled gently underneath.

Angus could play Scotch reels in a manner that made dancing almost unavoidable, but he preferred slow, plaintive music, and on this occasion indulged his taste to the full, so as to fling a mantle of quiescence and pathos over the family circle.

Samuel Ravenshaw had retired to a darkish corner to enjoy his pipe, but the music awoke sad memories. The lost Tony came vividly before him, and beside his darling boy arose the dark form of the Red Man, whose mode of taking his revenge had been to him so terrible, all the more terrible that the nature of the old man was secretive in regard to sorrow. His joys he was ever ready to share with every one, but his griefs he smothered in his own breast, and scorned to let his countenance betray his heart.

No one knew how much he suffered. Perhaps Elsie understood him best. At all events she had become more earnest and thoughtful in her attentions after that dark day when her little brother was spirited away. Leaving Lambert to Cora, she went over to her father, sat down beside him, and, laying her head upon his shoulder, listened with a sort of melancholy pleasure to the sweet strains of the violin.

They were suddenly and rudely awakened from this state of quiescence by a blinding flash of lightning, followed almost instantaneously by a tremendous clap of thunder which sounded like colliding worlds overhead, and then rolled away in deep mutterings of discontent. This was repeated at short intervals, then the rain and hail came down in torrents, and the wind rose so that soon the waves began to beat violently on the house. The day which had begun so calmly ended in furious storm--emblematic of many a day in every human life.

Seated there with feelings of awe and anxiety, the Ravenshaw household passed the night in silence.

And still the waters of the Red River continued to rise--slowly, it is true, and inch by inch instead of foot by foot--until these settlers in the great wilderness began to think, with something akin to superstitious fear, of that mighty deluge which had been sent to submerge the world in the days of old.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

OLD RAVENSHAW GOES EXPLORING AND RESCUING.

Another fine calm day came to comfort the victims of the flood in the midst of that tempestuous time, with its April character of mingled storm and sunshine. The rise in the water on the previous night had been almost imperceptible. Feeling, therefore, somewhat easier in his mind, old Mr Ravenshaw determined to embark in his boat for the purpose of paying a visit to those unfortunates who, after being driven from their homes, had taken refuge on the imperceptible eminence which had been styled "The Mountain." Taking with him Lambert and a stout crew, he embarked from his upper bedroom window, bade his wife and daughters an affectionate adieu, hoisted his sail, and pushed off.

The hoisting of the sail was a mere matter of form.

"It's of no use at present, but will be ready to catch the first puff that may favour us," observed the old gentleman, as he sat down and took the tiller. "Give way, lads."

The oars were dipped, and the Willow Creek mansion was soon but a speck on the horizon of the watery waste.

And now the old fur-trader learned the full extent of the desolation with which it had pleased God to visit the settlement at that time. While taken up with the cares and anxieties connected with Willow Creek, he was of course aware that terrible destruction, if not death, must have been going on around him; but now, when he rowed over the plains, saw the state of things with his own eyes, and heard the accounts of many settlers, some of whom he rescued from positions of danger, the full extent of the damage done by the great flood of 1826 was borne powerfully in upon his mind.

The varied stories which some had to tell of their escapes, others of their losses, and all, of their sufferings, were sad as well as interesting. Some of the people had taken shelter in garrets or on stages, where they had to wait anxiously till some boat or canoe should turn up to rescue them. Some had been surprised by the sudden rise of the flood at night while asleep, and had wakened to find themselves and their beds afloat. Two men who had gone to sleep on a rick of hay found themselves next morning drifting with the current some three miles below the spot where they had lain down. Others, like old Liz, had been carried off bodily in their huts. Not a few had been obliged to betake themselves to the housetops until help came. Some there were who took to swimming, and saved themselves by clinging to the branches of trees; yet, strange to say, during the whole course of that flood only one man lost his life. (See Note 1.)

It was very different, however, with regard to the lower animals. When at its height the water spread out on each side of the river to a distance of six miles, and about fourteen miles of its length, so that not only were many horses, cattle, pigs, and poultry drowned in the general stampede, but the pretty little ground squirrels were driven out of their holes, and along with rats, mice, snakes, and insects, perished in thousands. Even the frogs discovered that too much of a good thing is bad, for they found no rest for the soles of their feet, except floating logs, planks, and stray pieces of furniture, on which many of them were seen by our voyagers gazing contemplatively at the situation.

Everywhere houses and barns were seen floating about, their owners gone, but with dogs and cats in the doorways and windows, and poultry on the roofs; and the barking, mewing, and cackling of these, with the squealing of sundry pigs, tended to increase the general desolation. Such of the contents of these houses as had been left behind in the flight were washed out of them, and the waters were sprinkled here and there with bedsteads, chairs, tables, feather-beds, and other property, besides the carcasses of dead animals.

At certain points of the river, where there were shallows towards which the currents set, carts, carioles, boxes, carriages, gigs, fencing, and property of every description were stranded in large quantities and in dire confusion, but much of the wreck was swept onward and engulfed in Lake Winnipeg.

The unfortunate settlers found refuge ultimately, after being driven from knoll to knoll, on the higher ground of the Assinaboine, on the Little Mountain, and on a low hill twelve miles from the settlement.

On his way to the Little Mountain Mr Ravenshaw touched at the mission station. Here the various groups in the garret of the parsonage, the gallery of the church, and on the stage, were greatly reduced in numbers, many of the refugees having availed themselves of the visits of several settlers and gone off to the mountain in their boats or canoes, with what of their property they had managed to save.

Among those who remained there was a marked spirit of cheerful submission.

"You see," said the pastor, in reply to an observation of Mr Ravenshaw on this point, "I have endeavoured to impress upon my poor people that mere quiet submission to the inevitable is not a Christian characteristic, that men of all creeds and nations may and do thus submit, and that it is the special privilege of the follower of Jesus to submit _cheerfully_ to whatever befalls--pleasant or otherwise--because he has the promise that _all_ things shall work together for his good."

"Humph!" said the trader with a shrug of his shoulders; "it seems to me that some of us don't avail ourselves much of our privilege."

The pastor could scarcely repress a laugh at the grumpy tone in which his visitor spoke.

"You are right, Mr Ravenshaw, none of us come nearly up to the mark in our Christian course. The effort to do so constitutes much of the battle that we have to fight, but our comfort is, that we shall be more than conquerors in the long-run. There sits a widow now," he continued, pointing to an Indian woman seated on the stage who was busy making a pair of moccasins for a little child that played by her side, "who is fighting her battle bravely at present. Not a murmur has yet escaped her lips, although she has lost all her possessions--except her boy."

"Ah! except her boy!" The old trader did not speak. He only thought of Tony and quickly changed the drift of the conversation.

Soon after leaving the mission station a breeze sprang up; the sail filled; the oars were pulled in, and they went more swiftly on. Ere long they sighted the stage on which the women had been previously discovered singing hymns. They did not sing now. Their provisions were failing, their hopes of an abatement in the flood were dying out, and they no longer refused to accept deliverance from their somewhat perilous position.

"Have you seen anything of Herr Winklemann lately?" asked Lambert of one of the women.

"Nothing; but John Flett and David Mowat passed our stage yesterday in a canoe, and they told us that the hut of old Liz Rollin has been carried away with her and her father and Winklemann's mother, and they say that her son has been seen in a small canoe rangin' about by himself like a madman searchin' for her."

"The moment we reach the Mountain I'll get hold of a canoe and go in search of him," said Lambert.

"Right, boy! right!" said Ravenshaw; "I fear that something may have happened to the poor lad. These small canoes are all very well when you can run ashore and mend 'em if they should get damaged, but out here, among sunk posts and fences, and no land to run to, it is dangerous navigation.--Hist! Did ye hear a cry, lads?"

The men ceased to talk, and listened intently, while they gazed round the watery waste in all directions.

Besides a stranded house here and there, and a few submerged trees, nothing was to be seen on the water save the carcasses of a few cattle, above which a couple of ravens were wheeling slowly.

The cry was not repeated.

"Imagination," muttered old Ravenshaw to himself, after Lambert had given a lusty shout, which, however, elicited no reply.