"What do you think he means?" asked poor Mildred, shivering.

"I don't know exactly. He cannot mean that we are to climb over by a rope. I do not think I could do that; and I am sure you could not."

"Oh, no, no! Let us stay here! Stay with me under the trees, here, Oliver."

"Why, it would be much more comfortable to be at home by the fire. You are shivering now, already, as if it was winter: and the night will be very long, with nothing to eat."

"But Roger is gone; and I don't like to be where he is,—he is such a rude boy! How he snatched your ribbon, and pulled you about! And he calls you 'lad,' when he might just as well say 'Oliver.'"

"We must not mind such things now, dear. And we must get home, if he can show us how. Think how glad Ailwin and George will be: and I am sure father would wish it, and mother too. You must not cry now, Mildred; indeed you must not. People must do what they can at such a time as this. Come, help me to shout. Shriek as loud and as long as ever you can."

"I wish I might say my prayers," said Mildred, presently.

"Do, dear. Kneel down here;—nobody sees us. Let us ask God to save father,—and us too, and George and Ailwin, if it pleases Him;—and Roger."

They kneeled down, and Oliver said aloud to God what was in his heart. It was a great comfort to them both; for they knew that while no human eye saw them in the starlight, under the tree, God heard their words, and understood their hearts.

"Now again!" said Oliver, as they stood up.

They raised a cry about once a minute, as nearly as they could guess: and they had given as many as thirty shouts, and began to find it very hard work, before anything happened to show them that it was of any use. Then something struck the tree over their heads, and pattered down among the leaves, touching Oliver's head at last. He felt about, and caught the end of a rope, without having to climb the tree, to search for it. They set up a shout of a different kind now; for they really were very glad. This shout was answered by a gentle tug at the rope: but Oliver held fast, determined not to let anything pull the precious line out of his hand.

"What have we here?" said he, as he felt a parcel tied to the rope, a little way from the end. He gave it to Mildred to untie and open; which she did with some trouble, wishing the evening was not so dark.

It was a tinder-box.

"There now!" said Oliver, "we shall soon know what we are about. Do you know where the tree was cut down, the other day?"

"Close by? Yes."

"Well; bring a lapful of chips,—quick; and then any dry sticks you can find. We can get on twice as fast with a light; and then they will see from the house how we manage."

In a few minutes, there was a fire blazing near the tree. The rope must have come straight over from the house, without dipping once into the water; for not only were the flint and steel safe, but the tinder within, and the cloth that the box was done up in, were quite dry.

"Roger is a clever fellow,—that is certain," said Oliver. "Now for fastening the rope. Do you take care that the fire keeps up. Don't spare for chips. Keep a good fire till I have done."

Oliver gave all his strength to pulling the rope tight, and winding it round the trunk of the beech, just above a large knob in the stem. It seemed to him that the rope stretched pretty evenly, as far as he could see,—not slanting either up or down; so that the sill of the upper window must be about upon a level with the great knob in the beech-trunk. Oliver tied knot upon knot, till no more rope was left to knot. It still hung too slack, if it was meant for a bridge. He did not think he could ever cross the water on a rope that would keep him dangling at every move: but he had pulled it tight with all his force, and he could do no more. When he had tied the last knot, he and Mildred stood in front of the fire, and raised one more great shout, waving their arms—sure now of being seen as well as heard.

"Look! Look!" cried Oliver, "it is moving;—the rope is not so slack! They are tightening it. How much tighter it is than I could pull it! That must be Ailwin's strong arm,—together with Roger's."

"But still I never can creep across that way," declared Mildred. "I wish you would not try. Oliver. Do stay with me!"

"I will not leave you, dear: but we do not know what they mean us to do yet. There! Now the rope is shaking! We shall see something. Do you see anything coming? Don't look at the flashing water. Fix your eye on the rope, with the light upon it. What do you see?"

"I see something like a basket,—like one of our clothes' baskets,— coming along the line."

It was one of Mrs Linacre's clothes' baskets, which was slung upon the rope; and Roger was in it. He did not stay a minute. He threw to Oliver a line which was fastened to the end of the basket, with which he might pull it over, from the window to the tree, when emptied of Roger. He was then to put Mildred into the basket, carefully keeping hold of the line, in order to pull it back for himself when his sister should be safely landed. Ailwin held a line fastened to the other end of the basket, with which to pull it the other way.

Oliver was overjoyed. He said he had never seen anything so clever; and he asked Mildred whether she could possibly be afraid of riding over in this safe little carriage. He told her how to help her passage by pulling herself along the bridge-rope, as he called it, instead of hindering her progress by clinging to the rope as she sat in the basket. Taking care not to let go the line for a moment, he again examined the knots of the longer rope, and found they were all fast. In a few minutes he began hauling in his line, and the empty basket came over very easily.

"How shall I get in?" asked Mildred, trembling.

"Here," said Oliver, stooping his back to her. "Climb upon my back. Now hold by the tree, and stand upon my shoulders. Don't be afraid. You are light enough. Now, can't you step in?"

Feeling how much depended upon this, the little girl managed it. She tumbled into the basket, took a lesson from Oliver how to help her own passage, and earnestly begged him to take care of his line, that nothing might prevent his following her immediately. Then came a great tug, and she felt herself drawn back into the darkness. She did not like it at all. The water roared louder than ever as she hung over it; and the light which was cast upon it from the fire showed how rapidly it was shooting beneath. Then she saw Oliver go, and throw some more chips and twigs on the fire; and she knew by that that he could see her no longer. She worked as hard as she could, putting her hands one behind the other along the rope: but her hands were weak, and her head was very dizzy. She had had nothing to eat since breakfast, and was quite tired out.

While still keeping her eyes upon Oliver, she felt a jerk. The basket knocked against something; and it made her quite sick. She immediately heard Ailwin's voice saying, "'tis one of them, that's certain. Well! If I didn't think it was some vile conjuring trick, up to this very moment!"

The poor dizzy child felt a strong arm passed round her waist, and found herself carried near a fire in a room. She faltered out, "Ailwin, get something for Oliver to eat. He will be here presently."

"That I will: and for you first. You shall both have a drop of my cherry-brandy too."

Mildred said she had rather have a draught of milk; but Ailwin said there was no milk. She had not been able to reach the cow, to milk her. What had poor little George done, then?—He had had some that had been left from the morning. Ailwin added that she was very sorry,—she could not tell how she came to be so forgetful; but she had never thought of not being able to milk the cow in the afternoon, and had drunk up all that George left of the milk; her regular dinner having been drowned in the kitchen. Neither had she remembered to bring anything eatable up-stairs with her when the flood drove her from the lower rooms. The flower and grain were now all under water. The vegetables were, no doubt, swimming about in the cellar; and the meat would have been where the flour was, at this moment, if Roger, who said he had no mind to be starved, had not somehow fished up a joint of mutton. This was now stewing over the fire; but it was little likely to be good; for besides there being no vegetables, the salt was all melted, and the water was none of the best. Indeed, the water was so bad that it could not be drunk alone: and again good Ailwin pressed a drop of her cherry-brandy. Mildred, however, preferred a cup of the broth, which, poor as it was, was all the better for the loaf—the only loaf of bread—being boiled in it.

Just when Mildred thought she could stand at the window, and watch for Oliver, Oliver came in at the window. He was not too tired to have his wits about him, as Ailwin said;—wits, she added, that were worth more than hers. He had brought over some dry wood with him,—as much as the basket would hold; thinking that the peat-stack was probably all afloat, and the wood-heap wetted through. All were pleased at the prospect of keeping up a fire during this strange night. All agreed that the bridge-rope must be left as it was, while the flood lasted. There were wild animals and birds enough on the Red-hill to last for food for a long while; and there alone could they get fuel.

"You can't catch game without my dog," cried Roger, surlily, to Ailwin; "and my dog shan't put his nose to the ground, if you don't feed him well: and he shall be where I am,—mind you that."

As he spoke, he opened the door to admit the dog, which Ailwin had put out upon the stairs, for the sake of her pet hen and chicks which were all in the room. The hen fluttered up to a beam below the ceiling, on the appearance of the dog, and the chicks cluttered about, till Ailwin and Mildred caught them, and kept them in their laps. They glanced timidly at Roger, remembering the fate of the white hen, the day before. Roger did not heed them. He had taken out his knife, forked up the mutton out of the kettle, and cut off the best half for himself and his dog.

Probably Oliver was thinking that Roger deserved the best they could give him, for his late services; for he said,—

"I am sure, Roger, Mildred and I shall never forget,—nor father and mother either, if ever they know, it,—what you have done for us to-night. We might have died on the Red-hill but for you."

"Stuff!" muttered Roger, as he sat, swinging his legs, with his open knife in his hand, and his mouth crammed,—"Stuff! As if I cared whether you and she sink or swim! I like sport that's all."

Nobody spoke. Ailwin helped the children to the poor broth, and the remains of the meat, shaking her head when they begged her to take some. She whispered a good deal to Oliver about cherry-brandy; but he replied aloud that it looked and smelled very good; but that the only time he had tasted it, it made him rather giddy; and he did not wish to be giddy to-night;—there was so much to think about; and he was not at all sure that the flood had got to its height. He said no more, though his mind was full of his father. Neither he nor Mildred could mention their father to Ailwin to-night, even if Roger had been out of the way.

Roger probably thought what Oliver did say very silly; for he sat laughing as he heard it, and for some time after. Half an hour later, when Ailwin passed near him, while she was laying down a bed for Oliver, so that they might be all together during this night of alarm, she thought there was a strong smell of brandy. She flew to her bottle, and found it empty,—not a drop left Roger had drained it all. His head soon dropped upon his breast, and he fell from his chair in a drunken sleep. Mildred shrank back from him in horror; but Ailwin and Oliver rolled him into a corner of the room, where his dog lay down beside him.

Ailwin could not refrain from giving him a kick, while he lay thus powerless, and sneering in his face because he could not see her.

"Don't, Ailwin,—don't!" said Oliver. "Mildred and I should not have been here now but for him."

"And I should not have been terrified out of my wits, for these two hours past, nor have lost my cherry-brandy, but for him. Mercy! I shall never forget his popping up his face at that window, and sending his dog in before him. I was as sure as death that the flood was all of their making, and that they were come for me, after having carried off my master, and as I thought, you two."

"Why, Ailwin, what nonsense!" cried Mildred from her bed,—trembling all over as she spoke. "How could a boy make a flood?"

"And you see what he has done, instead of carrying us off," observed Oliver.

"Well, it is almost worth my cherry-brandy to see him lie so,—dead drunk,—only it would be better still to see him really dead.—Well, that may be a wicked thing to say; but it is not so wicked as some things he has done;—and I am so mortally afraid of him!"

"I wish you would say your prayers, Ailwin, instead of saying such things: and then, perhaps, you would find yourself not afraid of anybody."

"Well, that is almost as good as if the pastor had preached it. I will just hang up the chicks in the hand-basket, for fear of the dog; and then we will say our prayers, and go to sleep, please God. I am sure we all want it."

Oliver chose to examine first how high the water stood in the lower rooms. He lighted a piece of wood, and found that only two steps of the lower flight of stairs remained dry. Ailwin protested so earnestly that the waters had not risen for two or three hours, that he thought they might all lie down to sleep. Ailwin and he were the only ones who could keep watch. He did not think Ailwin's watching would be worth much; he was so tired that he did not think he could keep awake; and he felt that he should be much more fit for all the business that lay before him for the next day, if he could get a good rest now. So he kissed little George, as he lay down beside him, and was soon as sound asleep as all his companions.



CHAPTER FIVE.

SUNRISE OVER THE LEVELS.

All the party slept for some hours, as quietly and unconsciously as little George himself. If the children were so weary that the dreadful uncertainty about their father's fate could not keep them awake, it is probable that a knowledge of their own danger might have failed to disturb them. But they had little more idea than George himself of the extent of the peril they were in. They did not know that the Levels were surrounded by hills on every side but towards the sea; or, if they knew, they did not consider this, because the hills were a great way off. But, whether they were far or near, this circle of hills was the cause of the waters rising to a great height in the Levels, when once the defences that had kept out the sea and the rivers were broken down. As the hills prevented the overflowing waters from running off on three sides, it was clear that the waters must rise to the level of the sea and the rivers from which they flowed in. They had not reached this height when the children lay down to rest, though Ailwin was so sure that the worst was over; and the danger increased as they slept; slept too soundly even to dream of accidents.

The first disturbance was from the child. Oliver became aware, through his sleep, that little George was moving about and laughing. Oliver murmured, "Be quiet, George. Lie still, dear," and the child was quiet for a minute. Presently, however, he moved again, and something like a dabbling in water was heard, while, at the same moment, Oliver found his feet cold. He roused himself with a start, felt that his bed was wet, and turning out, was up to the ankles in water. By the light of the embers, he saw that the floor was a pond, with some shoes floating on it. His call woke Ailwin and Mildred at once. Roger did not stir, though there was a good deal of bustle and noise.

Mildred's bed was so high above the floor as to be still quite dry. Oliver told her to stay there till he should settle what was to be done next: and he took up the child to put him with Mildred, asking her to strip off his drenched clothes, and keep him warm. All the apparel that had been taken off was luckily on the top of a chest, far above the water. Oliver handed this to his sister, bidding her dress herself, as well as the child. He then carefully put the fire together, to make as much light as possible, and then told Ailwin that they must bestir themselves, as the fire would presently be drowned out.

Ailwin was quite ready to bestir herself; but she had no idea beyond mounting on chests, chairs, and drawers; unless, indeed, she thought of the beam which crossed the ceiling, to which she was seen to cast her eyes, as if envying the chicks which hung there, or the hen which still slept, with her head beneath her wing, out of present reach of the flood.

Oliver disapproved of the plan of mounting on the furniture of the room. It might be all very well, he said, if there were nothing better to be done. But, by the time the water would reach the top of the chests, it would be impossible to get out by the door. He thought it would be wisest to reach the roof of the house while they could, and to carry with them all the comforts they could collect, while they might be removed in a dry condition. Ailwin agreed, and was going to throw open the door, when Oliver stopped her hand.

"Why, Oliver," she cried, "you won't let one do anything; and you say, all the time, that there is not a minute to be lost."

Oliver showed her that water was streaming in at the sides of the door, a good way higher up than it stood on the floor. He said that the door was a defence at present,—that the water was higher on the stairs than in the room, and that there would be a great rush as soon as the door should be opened. He wished, therefore, that the bedding, and the clothes from the drawers, and all else that they could remove to the top of the house, should be bundled up, and placed on the highest chest of drawers, before the water should be let in. They must borrow the line from the clothes' basket, to tie round George's waist, that they might not lose him in the confusion. One other thing must be done: they must rouse Roger, or he might be drowned.

Ailwin was anxious that this last piece of duty should be omitted:—not that she exactly wished that Roger should be drowned,—at least, not through her means; but she, ignorant as she was,—had a superstitious feeling that Roger and his family had caused this flood, and that he could save himself well enough, though he appeared to be sunk in a drunken sleep. She indulged Oliver, however, so far as to help him to seize the lad, neck and heels, and lay him, dripping as he was, upon the table.

Before the bedding and clothes were all tied up, the door of the room shook so as to threaten to burst in, from the latch giving way. It struck everybody that the person who should open it would run the risk of being suffocated, or terribly knocked about; and yet, it was hardly wise to wait for its bursting. Oliver, therefore, tied a string to the knob of the bolt, then slipped the bolt, to keep the door fastened while he lifted and tied up the latch. The door shook more and more; so, having set the window wide open, he made haste to scramble up to where Mildred was, wound the cord which was about George's waist round his own arm, bade Mildred hold the child fast, and gave notice that he was going to open the door. It was a strange party, as the boy could not help noting at the moment,—the maid standing on the bed, hugging the bed-post, and staring with frightened eyes; Roger snoring on the table, just under the sleeping hen on the beam; and the three children perched on the top of a high chest of drawers. George took it all for play,— the new sash he had on and the bolting the door, and the climbing and scrambling. He laughed and kicked, so that his sister could scarcely hold him. "Now for it!" cried Oliver.

"Oh, Oliver, stop a minute!" cried Ailwin. "Don't be in such a hurry to drown us all, Oliver. Stop a moment, Oliver."

Oliver knew, however, that the way to drown them all was to stop. At the first pull the bolt gave way, the door burst open, as if it would break from its hinges, and a great body of water dashed in. The first thing the wave did was to wash Roger off the table; the next, to put out the fire with a fizz,—so that there was no other light but the dawn, now advancing. The waters next dashed up against the wall opposite the door; and then by the rebound, with less force, against the drawers on which the children sat. It then leaped out of the window, leaving a troubled surface at about half the height of the room. Above the noise, Ailwin was heard lamenting, the chicks cluttering, the hen fluttering, and George laughing and clapping his hands.

"You have George safe?" said Oliver. "Very well! I believe we can all get out. There is Roger's head above water; and I don't think it is more than up to my neck; though everybody laughs at me for being a short boy."

He stepped down upon a chair, and then cautiously into the water. It was very nearly up to his chin.

"That will do," said he, cheerfully. "Now, Ailwin, you are the tallest;—please carry George out on the roof of the house, and stay there with him till I come."

Ailwin made many lamentations at having to step down into the water; but she took good care of the child, carrying him quite high and dry. Oliver followed, to see that he was tied securely to the balustrade on the roof. While he was doing this, Ailwin brought Mildred in the same way. Mildred wanted to be of use below; but her brother told her the best thing she could do was to watch and amuse George, and to stand ready to receive the things saved from the chambers,—she not being tall enough to do any service in four feet of water.

It was a strange forlorn feeling to Mildred,—the being left on the house-top in the cold grey morning, at an hour when she had always hitherto been asleep in bed. The world itself, as she looked round her, seemed unlike the one she had hitherto lived in. The stars were in the sky; but they were dim,—fading before the light of morning. There were no fields, no gardens, no roads to be seen;—only grey water, far away on every side. She could see nothing beyond this grey water, except towards the east, where a line of low hills stood between her and the brightening sky. Poor Mildred felt dizzy, with so much moving water before her eyes, and in her ears the sound of the current below. The house shook and trembled, too, under the force of the flood: so that she was glad to fix her sight on the steady line of the distant hills. She spoke to George occasionally, to keep him quiet; and she was ready to receive every article that was handed up the stairs from below: but, in all the intervals, she fixed her eyes on the distant hills. She thought how easy it would be to reach that ridge, if she were a bird; and how hard it would be to pine away on this house-top, or to sink to death in these waters, for want of the wings which inferior creatures had. Then she thought of superior creatures that had wings too: and she longed to be an angel. She longed to be out of all this trouble and fear; and considered that it would be worth while to be drowned, to be as free as a bird or an angel. She resolved to remember this, and not to be frightened, if the water should rise and rise, till it should sweep her quite away. She thought that this might have befallen her mother yesterday. No boat had been seen on the waters in the direction of Gainsborough; no sign had reached the family that any one was thinking of them at a distance, and trying to save them: and Oliver and Mildred had agreed that it was likely that Mrs Linacre had heard some report of the pulling up of the sluices, and might have been on her way home when the flood overtook and drowned her. If so, she might be now an angel. If an angel, Mildred was sure her first thought would be, as it had ever been, of her home and her children; and the little girl looked up to see whether there was anything like the shadow of wings between her and the dim stars. She saw nothing; but still, in some kind of hope, she softly breathed the words, "O, mother! Mother!"

"Mother! Mother!" shouted little George, as he overheard her. Oliver leaped up the stairs, and inquired whether there was a boat,—whether mother was coming.

"No, Oliver, no. I was only thinking about mother; and so, I suppose, was George. I am afraid you are disappointed;—I am sorry."

Oliver bit his lip to prevent crying, and could not speak directly; but seemed to be gazing carefully all around the waste. He said, at last, that he had many times thought that his mother might come in a boat: and he thought she might still, unless...

"Unless she should be an angel now," whispered Mildred,—"unless she died yesterday; and then she might be with us now, at this very moment, though we cannot see her;—might not she?"

"Yes, I believe so, dear. And, for one thing, I almost wish she may not come in a boat. Who should tell her that father was carried away into all those waters, without having spoken one word to us?"

"If they are both dead, do you not think they are together now?" asked Mildred.

"Certainly. Pastor Dendel says that all who love one another well enough will live together, where they will never die any more."

"And I am sure they did," said Mildred.

"If they see us now," said Oliver, "it must make a great difference to them whether we are frightened and miserable, or whether we behave as we ought to do. Let us try not to be frightened, for their sakes, dear."

"And if they are not with us all the while, God is," whispered Mildred.

"O, yes; but God knows ... God will not expect..."

"Surely He will feel in some way as they do about us," said Mildred, remembering and repeating the verse Pastor Dendel had taught her. "'Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.'"

"'For he knoweth our frame; he remembereth that we are dust.'" So Oliver continued the psalm.

"There comes the sun!" exclaimed Mildred, happy to greet some one familiar object amidst this strange scene.

The scene hardly appeared the same when the sun, after first peeping above the hills like a golden star, flamed up to its full size, and cast a broad glittering light over the wide waters, and into the very eyes of the children. They felt the warmth too, immediately; and it was very cheering. The eastern hills now almost disappeared in the sun's blaze; and those to the west shone very clearly; and the southern ridge near Gainsborough, looked really but a little way off. The children knew, however, that there were three full miles between them and any land, except their Red-hill, and a few hillocks which peeped above the flood in the Levels: and there was no sign of a boat, far or near. Oliver checked a sigh, when he had convinced himself of this; and began to look what had become of the people they knew in the Levels.

Neighbour Gool's dwelling stood low; and nothing was now to be seen of it but a dark speck, which might be the top of a chimney. It was possible that the whole family might have escaped; for Gool and his wife were to be at Haxey yesterday; and they might there hear of the mischief intended or done to the sluices, in time to save the rest of the household. Some of the roofs of the hamlet of Sandtoft stood above the waters; and the whole upper part of the chapel used by the foreigners; and many might easily have found a refuge there. Further off, a conspicuous object was the elegant crocketed spire of one of the beautiful Lincolnshire churches, standing high, as if inviting those who were dismayed to come and save themselves in the air from the dangers of the waters. Oliver wondered whether any sufferers were now watching the sunrise from the long ridge of the church-roof, or from the windows of the spire.

One of the most curious sights was the fleets of haystacks that were sailing along in the courses of the currents. As the smaller stacks were sometimes shot forward rapidly, and whirled round by an eddy, while a large stately stack followed forwards, performing the same turns of the voyage, Mildred compared them to a duck and her ducklings in the pond, and Oliver to a great ship voyaging with a fleet of small craft. They saw sights far more sorrowful than this. They grieved over the fine large trees—some in full leaf—that they saw tumbling about in the torrents which cut through the stiller waters; but it was yet worse to see dead cows, horses, pigs, and sheep carried past—some directly through the garden, or over the spot where the mill had stood. There were also thatched roofs carried away entire; and many a chest, chair, and cow-rack—showing the destruction that had gone on during the night. While the distant scene was all bright and lovely in the sunrise, these nearer objects, thickly strewn in the muddy waters, were ugly and dismal; and Oliver saw that it did him and his sister no good to watch them. He started, and said they must not be idle any longer.

Just then Ailwin called from the stairs,—

"I say, Oliver, the cow is alive. I heard her low, I'm certain."

"I am afraid it was only George," said Mildred. "He was lowing like the cow, a minute ago."

"That might be because he heard the real cow," cried Oliver, with new hope. "I had rather save the cow than anything. I will see if I cannot get into one of the upper rooms that looks towards the yard. We might have a bridge-rope from more windows than one. Where is Roger? What is he fit for? Is he awake?"

"Awake! Yes, indeed," whispered Ailwin, coming close up to the children. "There is more mischief about that boy than you think for. He is now on the stairs, with more mice, and rats, and spiders, and creeping things about him than I ever saw before in all my days. We are like to be devoured as we stand on our feet; to say nothing of what is to become of us if we lie down."

Mildred looked at her brother in great terror.

"We must get rid of them, if they really do us hurt," said Oliver, decidedly, though with an anxious look. "We must drown them, if they are mischievous. We can do that, you know—at least with the larger things. They cannot get away from us."

"Drown away!" said Ailwin, mysteriously. "Drown away! The more you drown the more will come up. Why, did you never hear of the plagues of Egypt?"

"Yes, to be sure. What then?"

"I take this to be a plague of Egypt that that boy has brought upon us. It is his doing; and you will see that, if you will just look down from where I stand, and watch him making friends with them all."

Mildred's eyes were on her brother's face as he stood where Ailwin desired him, watching Roger. After looking very thoughtful for some moments, he turned and exclaimed,—

"There is not one word of sense in it all, Mildred. There is a wonderful number of live things there, to be sure; and here, too, all over the roof—if you look. But Roger is not making friends with them. He is teasing them—hurting all he can get hold of. I think the creatures have come up here because the water has driven them out of their holes; and that there would have been quite as many if Roger had been drowned in the carr. They have nothing to do with Roger, or the plagues of Egypt, Mildred. Don't believe a word of it."

"Then I wish Ailwin would not say such things," replied Mildred.

Ailwin persisted that time would show what Roger was—to which they all agreed. Oliver observed that meanwhile Ailwin, who was the oldest person among them, should not try to frighten a little girl, who was the youngest of all, except George. Ailwin said she should keep her own thoughts; though, to be sure, she need not always say what they were to everybody.

"About this cow," thought Oliver, aloud. "We must plan some way to feed her."

"Take care!" exclaimed Mildred, as he began to descend the stairs. But the words were scarcely out of her mouth when her brother called to her that the water had sunk. She ran to see, and saw, with her own eyes, that the water did not quite come up to the wet mark it had left on the wall of the stairs. Ailwin thought but little of it—it was such a trifle; and Oliver allowed that it might be a mere accident, arising from the flood having found some new vent about the house; but still, the water had sunk; and that was a sight full of hope.

"Have you heard the cow low, Roger?" asked Oliver.

"Yes, to be sure. She may well low; for she must be hungry enough."

"And wet and cold enough, too, poor thing! I am going to see whether, I can find out exactly where she is, and whether we cannot do something for her."

Ailwin called down-stairs to Oliver, to say that there was a washtub floating about in the room they had slept in. If he could find it, he might row himself about in that, in the chambers, instead of always wading in the water, catching his death of cold.

Oliver took the hint, and presently appeared in the tub, rowing himself with a slip of the wood he had brought over from the Red-hill. Roger stared at him as he rowed himself out of one chamber, and opened the door of another, entering it in fine style. Roger presently followed to see what was doing, and perhaps to try how he liked a voyage in a tub in a large chamber.

"I see her," cried Oliver, from the window. "I see poor cow's head, and the ridge of her back above water."

Roger came splashing to the window to look, and jumped into the tub, making it sink a good deal; but it held both the boys very well. Roger thought the cow very stupid that she did not get upon the great dunghill behind her, which would keep her whole body out of the water. Oliver thought that, as the dunghill was behind her, she could not see it. He wished he could go, and put her in mind of it. He thought he would try to cross in the tub, if he could so connect it with the window as that it might be drawn back, in case of his being unable to pass the little current that there was between the house and the ruins of the yard-buildings—of which little remained.

"I'll go, too," said Roger.

"Either you will go, or I," said Oliver. "One must stay to manage the rope, in case of the tub upsetting. You had better let me go, Roger, because poor cow knows me."

Roger, however, chose to go. Oliver asked him whether he could milk a cow; because some milk must be got for George, if possible. He said, very gravely, that his poor little brother would die, he thought, if they could not get milk for him.

Roger laughed at the doubt whether he could milk cows. He did it every day of his life, when fishing and fowling, with his uncle, in the carr. Oliver now guessed how it was that the milk of their good cow had sometimes unaccountably run short. Ailwin had observed that this never happened but when the Redfurns were in the neighbourhood; and she had always insisted upon it that they had bewitched the cow. Oliver knew that she would say so now. He said so much, and said it so seriously, about the necessity of milk for little George, that he thought not even a Redfurn could have the heart to drink up all the milk. He gave Roger a brown pitcher for the milk, and helped, very cleverly, to fasten the cord to the tub. They passed the cord through the back of a heavy old-fashioned chair that stood in the room, lest any sudden pull should throw Oliver out of the window; he then established himself on the window-sill, above the water, to manage his line, and watch what Roger would do.

Roger pulled very skilfully;—much more so, from his strength and from practice, than Oliver could have done. He avoided logs of wood, trees, and other heavy things that floated past; and this was nearly all he did till the line had quite run out, so that he could not be carried any further down. Then he began diligently working his way up towards the cow. He had got half-way to his object, when he paused a moment, and then changed his course—to Oliver's surprise; for the thing which appeared to have attracted his attention was a small copper boiler. Plenty of such things swept past before, and nobody had thought of wanting them. It was plain, however, that Roger had a fancy for this particular copper boiler; for he carefully waylaid it, and arrested it with his paddle. Oliver then saw that some live animal leaped from the boiler into the tub. He saw Roger seize the boiler, and take it into the tub; catch up the animal, whatever it might be, and nurse it in his arms; and then take something out of his pocket, and stoop down. Oliver was pretty sure he was killing something with his knife.

Whatever Roger was doing he had soon done. By this time he had again been carried down as far as the line would allow; and the additional weight he had now on board his tub made it harder work for him to paddle up again. He did it, however, and brought his odd little boat into still water, between the dunghill and the cow. After looking about him for a while, he threw out the boiler and the pitcher upon the dunghill, seized a pitchfork which was stuck upright in it, and, his craft being thus lightened, made for the ruins of the cart shed and stable.

Of these buildings there remained only wrecks of the walls, and a few beams and rafters standing up in the air, or lying across each other, without any thatch to cover them. Something must be left inside, however; for Roger was busy with his pitchfork. This something must be valuable, too; for Roger, after carefully feeling the depth, jumped out of the tub, and went on filling it, while he stood in the water. Oliver thought this very daring, till, glancing at the cow, he was sure he saw more of her neck and back; and examining the wall of the house, he perceived that the flood had sunk some inches since Roger began to cross.

When the tub was heaped up with what looked like wet straw, Roger pushed it before him towards the cow, carefully feeling his way, but never sinking so much as to have the water above his shoulders.

"Capital! Now that is clever!" said Oliver, aloud, as he sat at the window, and saw what Roger was about. "He is going to lift her up out of the water. How she struggles to help herself! She knows there is somebody caring for her; and she will do what she can for herself."

This was true. Roger thrust the straw he had brought under the cow, with his pitchfork. He had to bring three loads before she could raise her whole body; but then she stood, poor thing! With only her trembling legs in the water. Roger turned her head so that she saw the dunghill just behind her, and with some encouragement, made one more vigorous scramble to reach it. She succeeded; and Roger whipped up the pitcher, and was certainly trying to milk her. She could not, however, be prevented from lying down. Oliver was more angry than he had almost ever been in his life, when he saw Roger kick her repeatedly, in different parts of her body, pull her by the tail, and haul up her head with a rope he had found in the stable. The poor cow never attempted to rise; and it was clear that she wanted comfort, and not ill-usage. Oliver determined that, when Roger came back, he would not speak a word to him.

Roger set about returning presently, when he found that nothing could be got from the cow. He took his boiler on board, and pulled himself in by the line, without troubling himself to paddle.

When he came in at the window, he threw down the pitcher, swearing at himself for the trouble he had taken about a good-for-nothing beast that had been standing starving in the water till she had not a drop of milk to give. He looked at Oliver, as if rather surprised that he did not speak; but Oliver took no notice of him.

It was a hare that Roger had in his boiler,—a hare that had, no doubt, leaped into the boiler when pressed by a still more urgent danger than sailing down the stream in such a boat. Roger had cut her throat with his pocket-knife; and there she lay in her own blood.

"Don't you touch that," said Roger, as he landed his booty upon the window-sill. "If you lay a finger on that, it will be the worse for you. They are mine—both puss and the boiler."

Still Oliver did not speak. He wondered what Roger meant to do with these things, if nobody else was to touch them.

Roger soon made it clear what his intentions were. He whistled to his dog, which scampered down-stairs to him from the top of the house; put dog, puss, and boiler into the clothes' basket, and pulled himself over with them to the Red-hill, taking care to carry the tinder-box with him. There he made a fire, skinned and cooked his hare, and, with his dog, made a feast of it, under a tree.

Nobody grudged him his feast; though the children were sorry to find that any one could be so selfish. Ailwin was glad to be rid of him, on any terms; and, as soon as Oliver was sure that he was occupied for some time to come, so that he would not be returning to make mischief, he resolved to go over to the cow, and give her something better than kicks;—food, if, as he thought, he could procure some. Saying nothing to any one, he tied the tub-line to a bed-post, as being more trustworthy still than the heavy chair, and carried with him the great knife that the meat had been cut with the evening before. He made for the stable first, and joined the rope he knew to be there to his line, so as to make it twice the length it was before. He could now reach the field behind the stable, where the corn, just turning from green to yellow, had been standing high at this hour yesterday. He had to paddle very carefully here, lest his tub should be knocked to pieces against the stone wall. But the wall, though not altogether thrown down, had so many breaches made in it, that he found himself in the field, without exactly knowing whether he had come through the gate-posts or through the wall. He lost no time in digging with his paddle; and, as he had hoped, he turned up ears of corn from under the water, which he could catch hold of, a handful at a time, and cut off with his knife. It was very tiresome, slow work; and sometimes he was near losing his paddle, and sometimes his knife. He persevered, however: now resting for a minute or two, and then eating a few of the ears, and thinking that only very hungry people could swallow them, soaked as they were with bad water. He ate more than he would have done, remembering that the more he took now, the less he should want of the portion he meant to carry to the house, when he should have fed the cow. He hoped they should obtain some better food; but, if no flour was to be had, and no other vegetable than this, it would be better than none.

When he reached the cow, she devoured the heads of corn ravenously. She could not have appeared better satisfied with the sweetest spring grass. It was a pleasure to see her eyes as she lay, receiving her food from Oliver's hand. He emptied out all he had brought beside her, and patted her, saying he hoped she would give George some milk in the afternoon, in return for what had been done for her now.

Oliver felt so tired and weak when he got home with his tub half full of soaked corn ears, that he felt as if he could not do anything more. He was very near crying when he found that there was not a morsel to eat; that the very water was too bad to drink; and that there was no fire, from Roger having carried off the tinder-box. But George was crying with hunger; and that made Oliver ashamed to do the same, and put him upon thinking what was to be done next.

Ailwin was the only person who, being as strong as Roger could have got anything from him by force; and there was no use in asking Ailwin to cross the bridge-rope, or to do anything which would bring her nearer to the boy she feared so much. Besides that, Roger had carried over the clothes' basket without leaving any line to pull it back by. Oliver felt that he (if he were only a little less hungry and tired) could make the trip in a sack, or a tub, or even a kettle; but a tall woman like Ailwin could cross in nothing smaller than the missing clothes' basket. It was clear that Oliver alone could go; and that he must go for the tinder-box before any comfort was to be had.

He made up his mind to this, therefore; and having, with Ailwin's help, slung the useful tub upon the bridge-rope, so that he might start the first moment that Roger should be out of sight or asleep, he rested himself in the window, watching what passed on the Red-hill. He observed that Roger seemed quite secure that no one could follow him, as he had carried off the basket. There he lay, near the fire, eating the meat he had broiled, and playing with his dog. It seemed to the hungry watchers as if he meant to lie there all day. After awhile, however, he rose, and sauntered towards the trees, among which he disappeared, as if going to the other side of the hill, to play, or to set his dog upon game.

Oliver was off, sliding along the bridge-rope in his tub. He did not forget to carry the line with which to bring back the basket. It seemed to him that Roger intended to live by himself on the Red-hill; and to this none of the party had any objection. He had swum over to the house once, when the stream was higher and more rapid than now; and he could come again, if he found himself really in want of anything; so that nobody need be anxious for him. Meantime, no one at the house desired his company. Oliver therefore took with him a blanket and a rug, and a knife and fork for his accommodation.

He alighted under the beech without difficulty, and laid down the articles he brought under the tree, where Roger would be sure to see them. He took the flint and the tinder from the tinder-box, and pocketed them, leaving the steel and the box for Roger's use, as there were knives at home, and Roger might perhaps find a flint on the hill. There were plenty in the quarry. Oliver knew he must be quick; but he could not help looking round for something to eat,—some one of the many animals and birds that he knew to be on the hill, and heard moving about him on every side. But he had no means of catching any. The bones of the hare were lying about, picked quite clean by the dog; but not a morsel of meat was left in sight.

Something very precious, however, caught Oliver's eye;—a great heap of pebbly gravel thrown up by the flood. The water in the Levels was usually so bad that the settlers had to filter it; and Oliver knew that no water was purer than that which had been filtered through gravel. He believed now that poor George could have a good drink of water, at least; and he scooped up with his hands enough gravel to half fill the tub. It took a long time to heap up as much as he could carry upon the rug; and then it was hard work to empty it into the tub; and he fancied every moment that he heard Roger coming. It was a pity he did not know that Roger had fallen fast asleep in the sun, on the other side of the hill; and that his dog lay winking beside him, not thinking of stirring.

One thing more must be had;—chips for fuel. When Oliver had got enough of these, and of sticks too, he found courage and strength to stay a few minutes more, to make up such a fire for Roger as would probably last till after he should have discovered the loss of the flint, and so prevent his being without fire till he could find another flint. In order to give him a broad hint, Oliver spread out the blanket on the ground, and set the tinder-box in the middle of it, where it would be sure to invite attention. He then climbed into the tub, and was glad to be off, drawing the basket with the fire-wood after him.

"Here, Ailwin," said he, faintly, as he reached the window, "take the flint and the tinder, and the wood in the basket, and make a fire. I have brought you nothing to eat."

"No need!" said Ailwin, with an uncommonly merry countenance.

"You must broil the green corn, unless we can manage to get a fowl from across the yard. But I really cannot go any more errands till I am rested," said Oliver, dismally.

"No need, Oliver dear!" said Ailwin again.

"What do you think we have found to eat?" cried Mildred, from the stairs.—"What is the matter with him, Ailwin? Why does not he speak?"

"He is so tired, he does not know what to do," said Ailwin. "No, don't get down into the water again, dear. I'll carry you. Put your arm round my neck, and I'll carry you."

And the good-natured woman carried him up to the roof, and laid him down on a bundle of bedding there, promising to bring him breakfast presently. She threw an apron over his head, to cover it from the hot sun, and bade him lie still, and not think of anything till she came.

"Only one thing," said Oliver. "Take particular care of the gravel in the tub."

"Gravel!" exclaimed Ailwin. "The fowls eat gravel; but I don't see that we can. However, you shall have your way, Oliver."

The tired boy was asleep in a moment. He knew nothing more till he felt vexed at somebody's trying to wake him. It was Mildred. He heard her say,—

"How very sound asleep he is! I can't make him stir. Here, Oliver,— just eat this, and then you can go to sleep again directly."

He tried to rouse himself, and sat up; but his eyes were so dim, and the light so dazzling, that he could not see, at first, what Mildred had in her hands. It was one of her mother's best china plates,—one of the set that was kept in a closet up-stairs; and upon it was a nice brown toasted fish, steaming hot.

"Is that for me?" asked Oliver, rubbing his eyes.

"Yes, indeed, for who but you?" said Ailwin, whose smiling face popped up from the stairs. "Who deserves it, if you do not, I should like to know? It is not so good as I could have wished, though, Oliver. I could not broil it, for want of butter and everything; and we have no salt, you know. But, come! Eat it, such as it is. Come, begin!"

"But have you all got some too?" asked the hungry boy, as he eyed the fish.

"Oh, yes,—George and all," said Mildred. "We ate ours first, because you were so sound asleep, we did not like to wake you."

"How long have I been asleep?" asked Oliver, beginning heartily upon his fish. "How could you get this nice fish? How busy you must have been all this time that I have been asleep!"

"All this time!" exclaimed Mildred. "Why, you have been asleep only half an hour; hardly so much. We have only just lighted the fire, and cooked the fish, and fed Geordie, and put him to sleep, and got our own breakfast;—and we were not long about that,—we were so very hungry! That is all we have done since you went to sleep."

"It seems a great deal for half an hour," said Oliver. "How good this fish is! Where did you get it?"

"I found it on the stairs. Ah! I thought you would not believe it; but we shall find more, I dare say, as the water sinks; and then you will believe what you see."

"On the stairs! How did it get there?"

"The same way that the water got there, I suppose, and the poor little drowned pig that lay close by the same place. There was a whole heap of fish washed up at the turn of the stairs; enough for us all to-day. Ailwin said we must eat them first, because the pig will keep. Such a nice little clean sucking-pig!"

"That puts me in mind of the poor sow," said Oliver. "I forgot her when we were busy about the cow. I am afraid she is drowned or starved before this; but we must see about it."

"Not now," said Mildred. "Do you go to sleep again now. There is not such a hurry as there was, the waters are going down so fast."

"Are they, indeed?—Oh, I do not want to sleep any more. I am quite wide awake now. Are you sure the flood is going down?"

"Only look! Look at that steep red bank on the Red-hill, where it was all a green slope yesterday, and covered with water this morning. Look at the little speck of a hillock, where neighbour Gool's house was. We could not see that this morning, I am sure. And if you will come down, you will find that there is scarcely any water in the upper rooms now. Geordie might play at paddling there, as he is so fond of doing in his tub. Ailwin thinks we might sleep there to-night, if we could only get everything dried."

"We might get many things dried before night, in such a sun as this. How very hot it is!"

Oliver ran down, and convinced himself that the flood was abating fast. It must have swelled up higher within the house than outside; for it had sunk three feet in the upper rooms, and two on the outer walls of the house. Now that the worst of the danger seemed to be past, the children worked with fresh spirit, making all possible use of the sunshine for drying their bedding and clothes, in hopes of sleeping in a chamber this night, instead of on the house-top, which they had feared would be necessary. Nothing could have made them believe, if they had been told at sunrise, how cheerfully they would sit down, in the afternoon, to rest and talk, and hope that they might, after all, meet their father and mother again soon, alive and well.



CHAPTER SIX.

ROGER HIS OWN MASTER.

There lay Roger under the tree, thinking that there was nothing to prevent his having all his own way now, and that he was going to be very happy. He had always thought it hard that he could not have his own way entirely, and had been unsatisfied with a much greater degree of liberty than most people wish or have.

He had hitherto led a wandering life, having no home duties, no school to go to, no trade to work at,—no garden, or other pleasure, to fix him to one spot. He had gone, with his uncle, from sporting on the moors, in one season of the year, to sporting in the marshes in another; and, wild as was this way of life, it made his will so much wilder, that he was always wishing for more liberty still. When his aunt had desired him to watch the kettle, as it hung over the fire near the tent, or asked him to help her in shaking out their bedding, or cleaning their utensils, he had turned sulky, and wished that he lived alone, where he need not be plagued about other people's affairs. When his uncle had ordered him to attend at a certain spot and hour, with nets or a gun, he had been wont to feel himself seized with a sudden desire to wander in an opposite direction, or to lie half asleep in the sun, too lazy to work at all. When he had played truant, and returned late to the tent, and found nothing better left to eat than a dry crust of bread, or the cold remains of a mess of fish, he had frequently thought how pleasant it would be to have the best of everything for himself, and only his dog to eat up the rest. So this boy had often felt and thought; and so would many think and feel, perhaps, if there were many as forlorn and friendless as he, with no one to love and be loved by. Though he had had an uncle and aunt, he had never had a friend. He knew that they cared about him only because he could help to keep the tent, and take the game; and, feeling this, it was irksome to him to be under their orders.

The time was now come for which he had so often longed. He was his own master completely. There was nobody near who could order or compel him to do anything; while he, on his part, had an obedient servant in his dog. The sky was blue and warm overhead, and the trees cast a pleasant shade. The Red-hill was now an island, which he had all to himself; and it was richly stocked with game, for his food and sport. Here he could have his own way, and be completely happy.

Such was Roger's idea when he stole the tinder-box, and crossed to the hill; and this was what he said to himself as he cooked his meal, and when he lay down after it on the grass, with the bees humming round him, and the sound of the waters being now a pleasant ripple, instead of the rush and roar of yesterday. He desired his dog to lie down, and not disturb him; and he took this opportunity to change the animal's name. Stephen Redfurn, taking up the quarrel of the day against the bishops, would have the dog called "Bishop," and nothing else. Roger had always wished to call him "Spy;" but Bishop would never answer to the name of Spy, or even seem to hear it. Now, however, Bishop was to be Spy, as there was no one here to indulge the dog with his old name; and Spy was told so many times over, and with all the devices that could be thought of for impressing the fact on his memory.

This lesson being given, Roger shut his eyes, and thought he would sleep as long as he chose; but, in the first place, he found himself too much heated for sleep. He considered that it was no wonder, after broiling himself in making a fire to broil his hare. He wished animals ran about ready cooked—as fruits grow on the sunny side of trees. It was too bad to have to bustle and toil for an hour, to get ready what was eaten in ten minutes; and it just passed through his mind that, whatever Nan Redfurn might have sometimes said and done to him, she had usually saved him all trouble in cooking, and had had his meals ready for him whenever he chose to be at the tent at meal times. He rose, and thought he could find a cooler place, further under the trees.

He did so, and again lay down. Sleep began to steal over him; and, at the same time, the thought crept into his mind that he should never more see Stephen Redfurn. The ideas that come when one is dropping asleep are very vivid; and this one startled Roger so, that Spy found it out, and pricked up his ears, as if at some alarm. This thought would not go away; for it so happened that the last words that Stephen and Roger had spoken together were angry ones. Stephen had ordered Roger to carry the fry they had fished for manure to a field, where he had promised to deposit it by a certain time. Roger had been sure that the fish would be better for lying in the sun a while longer, and refused to touch it. No matter which was right about the manure; both were wrong in being angry. Stephen had said that Roger was a young rascal, who would never come to good; and Roger had looked impertinently in his uncle's face, while whistling to the dog to come with him, and make sport among the water-fowl. It was that face—that countenance of his uncle's, as he had last seen it, which was before Roger's eyes now, as he lay dozing. With it came the angry tones of Stephen's voice, saying that he would never come to good. Mixed and confused with this was the roar of a coming flood, and a question (how and whence spoken he knew not) whether his uncle might not possibly have been saved, if he had not, against orders, carried away Bishop—for the dog was still Bishop in his master's dreams.

Roger started bolt upright, and looked about him. He felt very tired; but he thought he would not lie down again just yet. It was odd that he could not get sound asleep, so tired as he was. If he should not sleep better than this at night, what should he do? He wished he had some more of that woman's cherry-brandy. He had slept sound enough after drinking that. It was well for Roger that he was not now within reach of intoxicating liquors—the state of his mind would probably have made a drunkard of him.

His mind ran strangely on his uncle, and his uncle's last looks and words, even as he stood wide awake, and staring at the bee-hives. A rustle in the briars behind him made him jump as if he had been shot. It was only a partridge taking wing.

"Whirr away!" said Roger to her. "You can't go far. You will have to light again upon my island. You all belong to me—you swarming creatures! You may run about awhile, and flutter away a bit; but you will all belong to me at last, with Spy to help me. I'll have some sport, now. Here, Spy! Spy!"

Spy had disappeared, and did not come when called. A whistle brought him, however, at last. He came out of the thicket, licking his chops. Being commanded to bring his game, he soon produced two rabbits. It was easy work for the dog to catch them; for the poor creatures had no holes here. They had come to this raised ground from a warren some way off, where they had been soaked out of their holes.

Spy was praised for everything but not answering to his name. For that he was lectured, and then sent off again, to try what he could find. He brought in prey of various kinds; for he could not stir among the trees without starting some. During the fun, as Roger thought it, while the terrified birds were fluttering among the branches of the trees, and the scared animals bursting through the thicket, Roger resolved that he would not plague himself with any more thoughts of Stephen and Nan. If they were drowned, it was none of his doing; and, as for Stephen's anger yesterday, there was nothing new in that; Stephen was angry every day of his life. He would not be scared out of his sleep any more by nonsense. He would not give up having his own way to see Stephen and Nan under these very trees; and, as he had got his own way at last, he would enjoy it.

This mood went on till there was such a heap of dead animals, that Roger began to think whether he could skin them all, and clean their skins, in such hot weather as this, before they were unfit for any use. As for eating them, here was twenty times as much food as could be eaten while it was good. He did just remember the children and Ailwin, and how much they probably wanted food; but he settled that it was no business of his; and he was not going to trouble himself to leave his island for anybody. He would call in Spy, and tie him up; for there must be no more game killed to-day.

Spy did not come for any calling,—for anything short of the well-known whistle, as Roger would not utter the name of Bishop. Roger grew very angry at being obeyed no better than this; and his last whistle was so shrill that the dog seemed to know what it threatened, refused to answer it as long as he dared, and then came unwillingly, with fear in every attitude. He gave a low whine when he saw his master; as he had good reason to do. Roger tied him to a tree, and then gave loose to his passion. He thrashed the dog with a switch till the poor creature's whine was heard and pitied by the children and Ailwin on their house-top; and there is no knowing how long the whipping might not have gone on, if the animal had not at last turned furious, and snapped at Roger in a way which made him think of giving over, and finding something else to do with his sovereignty.

He found it was rather dull work, so far, having all his own way, in an island of his own. At last, he bethought himself of an amusement he had been fond of before he lived so much in the moors and the carrs. He bethought himself of bird's-nesting. It was too late for eggs; but he thought the bird-families might not have all dispersed. Here were plenty of trees, and they must be full of birds; for, though they were silent to-day (he did wish the place was not quite so silent!) they sometimes sent their warblings so far over the carr, that Nan Redfurn would mention them in the tent. He would see what ailed them, that they would not give him any music to-day. By incessant cooing, he obtained an answer from one solitary pigeon; which he took advantage of to climb the tree, and look for the nest. He found a nest; but there was nothing in it. He climbed several trees, and found abundance of nests; but all deserted. Except his solitary pigeon (which presently vanished), there appeared to be not a winged creature in all those trees. The birds had been frightened away by the roar of the flood of yesterday; and, perhaps, by seeing the fields, to which they had been wont to resort for their food, all turned into a waste of muddy waters.

Roger threw to the ground every empty nest he found, from the common inability of a boy to keep his hands off a bird's-nest. When he was tired of climbing trees, he picked up all the scattered nests, and laid them in a long row on the grass. They looked dismal enough. It is disagreeable to see a range of houses left half-built (such as may be seen in the neighbourhood of large towns), with the doorways gaping, and the window-spaces empty, and roofs hardly covering in the dark inside; but such a row of houses is less dismal than Roger's array of birds'-nests. There is something in the very make of a bird's-nest which rouses thoughts of blue or red-spotted eggs, of callow young birds, with their large hungry eyes and beaks, or of twittering fledglings, training for a shimmer life of pleasure. To see, instead of these, their silent empty habitations, extended in a long row, would be enough to make any one dull and sad. So Roger found. He kicked them into a heap under a tree, and thought that they would make a fine crackling fire. He would burn them, every one.

While he was wondering whether any birds would come back to miss their nests, it struck him that he had not thought how he was to pass the night. It was nothing new to him to sleep in the open air. He liked it best at this season. But he had usually had a rug to lie upon, with the tent over him; or a blanket; or, at worst, he had a sack to creep into. The clothes he had on were old and thin; and as he looked at them, it made him angry to think that he was not to have everything as he liked it, after all. Here he should have to pass a cold night, and with nothing between him and the hard ground. He thought of gathering leaves, moss, and high grass, to roll himself up in, like a squirrel in its hole; but the trouble was what he did not like. He stood listlessly thinking how much trouble it would cost to collect moss and leaves for the purpose; and, while he was so thinking, he went on pelting his dog with birds'-nests, and seeing how the angry dog, unable to get loose, snapped up and shook to pieces the nests which fell within his reach.

Roger knew that he ought to be skinning some of the dead animals, if he really meant to secure all their skins, before it was too late; but this also was troublesome. Instead of doing this, he went round the hill, to see what the Linacres were about, resolving by no means to appear to see them, if they should be making signs from the window to have the things back again that he had carried away. On coming out of the shade on that side of the hill, he was surprised to see smoke still going up from his fire, considering that the fire was nearly out when he had left it. Something more strange met his eye as he ran forward. There was the nice clean blanket spread out on the ground, with the tinder-box in the middle.

"Somebody has been here!" cried Roger, much offended. "What business has anybody in my island? Coming when my back is turned! If I had only heard them coming to meddle—!"

Just then, his eye fell on the rug, blanket, and knife and fork left by Oliver,—the very accommodation he had been wishing for, and more. When he felt the thick warm rug, he gave over his anger at some one having entered his island without his leave, and, for a moment, again felt pleased and happy. But when he saw that the bridge-basket was gone— that other people had the means of coming in upon him when they pleased—he was more angry than he had been all day.

"However," thought he, "I got over to the house before anyone else crossed the water, and I can do the same again whenever I please. I have only to swim over with Spy, and bring away anything I like, while they are busy on the other side, about their good-for-nothing cow, or something. That will be tit-for-tat."

He was doubly mistaken here. His going over to steal comforts from the Linacres would not be tit-for-tat for Oliver's coming over to his father's hill, to bring away his mother's clothes basket, and leave comforts for an unwelcome visitor! Neither could Roger now enter the Linacres' dwelling when he pleased, by swimming the stream. He saw this when he examined and considered. The water had sunk so as to show a few inches of the top of the entrance-door and lower windows. It was not high enough to allow of his getting in at the upper window, as he did yesterday; and too high for entrance below. The stream appeared to be as rapid and strong as ever; and it shot its force through the carr as vehemently as at first; for it was almost, or quite as deep as ever. It had worn away soil at the bottom of its channel, to nearly or quite the same depth as it had sunk at the surface; so that it was still working against the walls and foundation of the house, and the soil of the hill, with as much force as during the first hour. When Roger examined the red precipice from which he looked down upon the rushing stream, he perceived that not a yard of Linacres' garden could now be in existence. That garden, with its flourishing vegetables, its rare, gay, sweet flowers, and its laden fruit trees,—that garden which he and Stephen could not help admiring, while they told everybody that it had no business in the middle of their carr,—that garden, its earth and its plants, was all spread in ruins over the marsh; and instead of it would be found, if the waters could be dried up, a deep, gravelly, stony watercourse, or a channel of red mud. Roger wondered whether the boy and girl were aware of this fate of their garden; or whether they supposed that everything stood fast and in order under the waters. He wanted to point out the truth to them; and looked up to the chamber window, in hopes that they might be watching him from it. No one was there, however. On glancing higher, he saw them sitting within the balustrade on the roof. They were all looking another way, and not appearing to think of him at all. He watched them for a long while; but they never turned towards the Red-hill. He could have made them hear by calling; but they might think he wished to be with them, or wanted something from, instead of understanding that he desired to tell them that their pretty garden was destroyed. So he began to settle with himself which of his dead game he would have for supper, and then fed his fire, in order to cook it. He now thought that he should have liked a bird for supper,—a pheasant or partridge instead of a rabbit or leveret; of which he had plenty. He felt it very provoking that he had neither a net nor a gun, for securing feathered game, when there was so much on the hill; so that he must put up with four-footed game, when he had rather have had a bird. There was no bread either, or vegetables; but he minded that less, because neither of these were at hand, and he had often lived for a long time together on animal food. During the whole time of his listless preparations for cooking his supper, he glanced up occasionally at the roof; but he never once saw the party look his way. He thought it very odd that they should care so much less about him, than he knew they did when Stephen and he came into the carr. They neither seemed to want him nor to fear him to-day.

At length he went to set Spy loose, in order to feed him, and to have a companion, for he felt rather dull, while seeing how busily the party on the house-top were talking. When he returned with Spy, the sun had set, and there was no one on the house-top. A faint light from the chamber window told that Ailwin and the children were there. Roger wondered how they had managed to kindle a fire, while he had the tinder-box. He learned the truth, soon after, by upsetting the tinder-box, as he moved the blanket. The steel fell out; and the flint and tinder were found to be absent. In his present mood he considered it prodigious impertinence to impose upon him the labour of finding a flint the next day, and the choice whether to make tinder of a bit of his shirt, or to use shavings of wood instead. He determined to show, meanwhile, that he had plenty of fire for to-night, and therefore heaped it up so high, that there was some danger that the lower branches of the ash under which he sat would shrivel up with the heat.

No blaze that he could make, however, could conceal from his own view the cheerful light from the chamber window. There was certainly a good fire within; and those who sat beside it were probably better companions to each other than Spy was to him. The dog was dull and would not play; and Roger himself soon felt too tired, or something, to wish to play. He could not conceal from himself that he should much like to be in that chamber from which the light shone, even though there was no cherry-brandy there now.

The stars were but just beginning to drop into the sky, and the waste of waters still looked yellow and bright to the west; but Roger's first day of having his own way had been quite long enough; and he spread his rug, and rolled himself in his blanket for the night. Spy, being invited, drew near, and lay down too. Roger was still overheated, from having made such an enormous fire; but he muffled up his head in his blanket, as if he was afraid lest even his dog should see that he was crying.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

ROGER NOT HIS OWN MASTER.

More than once during the long night, Roger heard strange sounds; and Spy repeatedly raised his head, and seemed uneasy. Above the constant flow of the stream, there came occasionally a sort of roar, then a rumble and a splash, and the stream appeared to flow on faster. Once Roger rose in the belief that the house,—the firm, substantial, stone house,—was washed down. But it was not so. There was no moon at the time of night when he looked forth; but it was clear starlight; and there stood the dark mass of the building in the midst of the grey waters. Roger vowed he would not get up from his warm rug again, on any false alarm; and so lay till broad daylight, sometimes quite asleep, and sometimes drowsily, resolving that he would think no more of uncle Stephen, except in the day-time.

Soon after sunrise, however, a renewed rumble and splash roused him to open his eyes wide. What he saw made him jump up, and run to the edge of the precipice, to see all he could. The greater part of the roof of the house was gone; and there were cracks in the solid stone walls through which the yellow sunshine found its way. One portion of the wall leaned in; another leaned out towards the water. At first Roger expected to see the whole building crumble down into the stream, and supposed that the inhabitants might be swept quite away. He gazed with the strange feeling that not a creature might be now left alive in that habitation.

Roger's heart sank within him at the idea of his own solitude, if this were indeed the case. He had nothing to fear for his own safety. The Red-hill would not be swept away. He could live as he was for a long time to come; till some some steps should be taken for repairing the damage of the flood; till some explorers should arrive in a boat; which he had no doubt would happen soon. It was not about his own safety that Roger was anxious; but it frightened him to think of being entirely alone in such a place as this, with the bodies of all whom he knew best lying under the waters on every side of him. If he could have Oliver with him to speak to, or even little George, it would make all the difference to him. He really hoped they were left alive. When he began to consider, he perceived that the bridge-rope remained, stretched as tight as ever. The chamber window, and indeed all that wall of the house, looked firm and safe; and such roof as was left was over that part. This was natural enough, as the violence of the flood was much greater on the opposite side of the house than on the garden side. The staircase was safe. It was laid open to view very curiously; but it stood upright and steady: and, at length, to Roger's great relief, Mildred appeared upon it. She merely ran up to fetch something from the roof; but her step, her run and jump, was, to Roger's mind, different from what it would have been if she had been in great affliction or fear. In his pleasure at this, he snatched his cap from his head, and waved it: but the little girl was very busy, and she did not see him. It was odd, Roger said to himself, that the Linacres were always now thinking of everything but him, when formerly they could never watch him enough.

After a while he descended the bank, to fill his boiler with water. It was necessary to do this for some time before drinking, in order that the mud might settle. Even after standing for several hours, the day before, the water was far from clear; and it was very far from sweet. This was nothing new to Roger, however, who had been accustomed to drink water like this as often as he had been settled in the carr, though he had occasionally been allowed to mix with it some gin from his uncle's bottle. He was thirsty enough this morning to drink almost anything; but he did think the water in the boiler looked particularly muddy and disagreeable. Spy seemed as thirsty as himself, and as little disposed to drink of the stream as it ran below. He pranced about the boiler, as if watching for an opportunity to wet his tongue, if his master should turn his back for a minute.

The opportunity soon came; for Roger saw the bridge-basket put out of the window by Ailwin; after which, Oliver got into it. Ailwin handed him something, as he pulled away for the Red-hill. With a skip and a jump Roger ran to the beach to await him.

"Pull away! That's right! Glad to see you!" exclaimed Roger. "Halloo, Spy! Down, sir! Pleased to see you, Oliver."

Oliver was glad to hear these words. He did not know but that he might have been met by abuse and violence, for having carried home the basket.

"Would you like some milk?" asked Oliver, as he came near.

"Ay, that I should," replied Roger.

"Leave yonder water to your dog, then, and drink this," said Oliver, handing down a small tin can. "You must let me have the can, though. Almost all our kitchen things floated out through the wall, at that breach that you see, during the night. You must give me the can again, if you would like that I should bring you some more milk this afternoon. The poor cow is doing but badly, and we cannot feed her as we should like: but she has given milk enough for George this morning, with a little to spare for us and you. You seem to like it," he added, laughing to see how Roger smacked his lips over the draught.

"That I do. It is good stuff, I know," said Roger, as he drained the last drop.

"Then I will bring you some more in the afternoon, if there is any to spare from poor George's supper."

"That's a pity. You've enough to do, I think. Suppose I come over. Eh?"

"There is something to be said about that," replied Oliver, gravely. "We do not want to keep what we have to ourselves. We have got a chest of meal, this morning."

"A chest of meal!"

"Yes: a large chest, and not wet at all, except an inch deep all round the outside. We caught it just now as it was floating by; and we should like you to have some of it, as you have no bread here: but you know, Roger, you kicked our poor cow when she was too weak to stand; and you carried away our tinder-box when you knew we had no fire. We don't want to have you with us to do such things: and so I think I had better bring you some of the meal over here. And yet it is a pity; for the broth that Ailwin is making will be very good."

"I'll come over," said Roger. "I am stronger than you, and I can help you to feed the cow, and everything."

"I can do all that, with Ailwin to help: and I am sure Mildred had much rather you should stay here, unless you behave differently. And poor little George, too! He is not well, and we do not like that he should be frightened."

"I sha'n't frighten him or anybody, you'll see. You had better let me come; and Spy and I will bring you a lot of game."

"We don't want any game, at present. We have plenty to eat."

"You had better let me come and help you. I won't hurt George, or anything. Come, I promise you you shan't repent doing me a good turn."

"Then you shall come, Roger. But do remember that Mildred is only a little girl; and consider poor Geordie too; he is quite ill. You wont tease him? Well, here's the line. Come as soon as you please, after I am landed."

Oliver had been in the basket, out of reach, during this conversation. He now flung down the basket line, and returned Roger was not long in following, with some of his game, some fire-wood, and his dog. He left his bedding hidden in the thicket, and the tinder-box in a dry hole in a tree, that he might come back to his island at any time, in case of quarrel with the Linacres.

Poor little George did indeed look ill. He was lying across Mildred's lap, very fretful, his cheeks burning hot, his lips dry, and his mouth sore. Ailwin had put a charm round his neck the day before; but he did not seem to be the better for it. Busy as she was, she tied on another the moment she heard from Oliver that Roger was coming. When Roger and the basket darkened the window, Ailwin and Mildred called out at once, "Here he is!" George turned his hot head that way, and repeated, "Here he is!"

"Yes, here I am! And here's what I have brought," said Roger, throwing down two rabbits and a leveret. He took up the leveret presently, and brought it to George, that he might feel how soft the fur was. The child flinched from him at first, but was persuaded, at length, to stroke the leveret's back, and play with its paws.

"That boy has some good in him after all," thought Ailwin, "unless this be a trick. It is some trick, I'll be bound."

"You are tight and dry enough here," said Roger, glancing round the room. "By the look of the house from the hill, I thought you had been all in ruins."

The minds of Ailwin and Mildred were full of the events of the night; and they forgot that it was Roger they were speaking to when they told what their terrors had been. Ailwin had started up in the middle of the night, and run to the door; and, on opening it, had seen the stars shining bright down into the house. The roof of the other side of the house was clean gone. When Mildred looked out from the same place at sunrise, she saw the water spread almost under her feet. The floor of the landing-place, and the ceiling of one of the lower rooms had been broken up, and the planks were floating about.

"Where are they?" asked Roger, quickly. "To be sure you did not let them float off, along with the kitchen things that got away through the wall?"

Mildred did not know that any care had been taken of the planks. Roger was off to see, saying that they might be glad of every foot of plank they could lay their hands on.

Ailwin and Mildred saw no more of either of the boys during the whole morning. They might have looked out to discover what was doing, but that neither of them liked the sight of the bare rafters overhead, or of the watery precipice at their feet. So Ailwin went on making cakes of a curious sort, as she said; cakes of meal, made up with milk and water, without either yeast or salt. They would not be spoiled by the water; that was all that could be said for them. The water which was filtered through gravel turned out quite good enough to be used in cooking, and even for poor George to drink, so very thirsty as he was. While the fowl simmered in the pot, and the cakes lay toasting on the hob, Ailwin busied herself in making the beds, and then in rubbing, with her strong arm, everything in the room, helping the floor, the walls, and the furniture to dry from the wetting of yesterday. From the smell, she said, she should have thought that everything in the house was growing mouldy before her face. They were all aware that the bad smell which they had observed yesterday, was growing worse every hour. Roger had been much struck with it the moment he entered the window.

When the boys at length appeared, to say how hungry they were, they burst in more like two schoolfellows who have been trying a new game, than little lads on whom others were depending for subsistence in the midst of a heavy calamity. They had made a raft—a real stout, broad raft, which would be of more use to them (now the currents were slackening) than anything they had attempted yet. Oliver told that among the many things which the current brought from poor neighbour Gool's, was a lot of harness from his stables. Roger had seen at once what strong fastenings this harness would make for their raft. They had then crossed to their own stable, and found their own suit of harness hanging safe against the wall which remained. They had tied their planks to three stout beams, which they had pulled out from the ruined part of their house wall. It had been pretty hard work; but the raft was secure, and well fastened, moreover, to a door-post, with a long line; so that they might row about without having always to be looking that they were not carried abroad into the carr. Oliver really thought it was almost as good as having a boat. Roger protested that it was better, because it would hold more goods: but the brother and sister could not think that the raft was the best of the two, when they remembered that a boat would carry them, perhaps, to their mother's arms. Oliver knew what Mildred was thinking of when he said,—

"We must not dream of getting away on our raft, dear. It would upset in the currents twenty times, between this place and the hills."

"Well, what of that?" said Roger. "Who wants to get to the hills? We have got all we want for a good while here. We can take our pleasure, and live as free as wild-ducks in a pond that nobody comes near."

Roger was quite in spirits and good humour. It may seem strange that a boy who was so lazy the day before, as to wish that hares ran about ready roasted, should work so hard this day at so severe a job as making a raft. But it was natural enough. There is nothing interesting to a dull and discontented person, all alone, in preparing a meal for his own self to eat: but there is something animating in planning a clever job, which can be set about immediately—a ready and willing companion being at hand to help, and to talk with. There was also something immediate to be gained by finishing this raft. One thing or another was floating by every quarter of an hour, which it would be worth while to seize and bring home. As Roger saw, now a hay-cock, and now a man's hat, float by, he worked harder and harder, that as few treasures as possible might be thus lost. Oliver felt much in the same way, particularly from his want of a hat or cap. Ailwin had made him tie a handkerchief round his head; but it heated him, without saving him much from the scorching of the sun on his head, and the glare from the waters to his eyes.

Ailwin had looked for some compliments to her cookery from the hungry boys; but they forgot, in their eagerness about the raft, that it was a treat in these days to have meal-cakes; and they ate and talked, without thinking much of what it was that they were putting into their mouths. When they went off again to see what they could find, it is not to be told how Mildred would have liked to go with them. She did not want her dinner, to which Ailwin said they two would now sit down comfortably. She did not now mind the precipice and the broken walls, and the staring rafters. She longed to stand somewhere, and see the boys take prizes in the stream. She had held poor George all the morning; for he would not let her put him on the bed. Her back ached, her arms were stiff, and her very heart was sick with his crying. He had been fretting or wailing ever since daylight; and Mildred felt as if she could not bear it one minute longer. Just then she heard a laugh from the boys outside; and Ailwin began to sing, as she always did when putting away the pots and pans. Nobody seemed to care: nobody seemed to think of her; and Mildred remembered how different it would have been if her mother had been there. Her mother would have been thinking about poor George all the morning: but her mother would have thought of her too; would have remembered that she must be tired; and have cheered her with talk, or with saying something hopeful about the poor baby.