



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Settlers at Home, by Harriet Martineau.

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This shortish novel first appeared in 1841, and was published in a
collection of the author's four short 1841 novels, "The Playfellow".

The scene is set in Lincolnshire, a part of England much of which is
flat and prone to flooding by the sea.  It was drained in the 1600s by
Dutch engineers by the creation of drains and sea defences.  To this day
part of the county is called Holland.  After the draining the land was
leased by the King to various settlers from overseas, among whom were
the Linacres, the hero-family of this book.  The King's enemies break
down the sea defences, and the land is flooded, with haystacks, mills
and barns floating away, farm animals drowning, and everyone in great
peril.  By various mishaps the three Linacre children and a boy from a
roguish nomadic family, are deprived of the Linacre mother and father
just when they most need them, and find themselves in the care of
Ailwin, the strong and sturdy maid-of-all-work.  Before they can get
reunited with the parents, Geordie, the weakly two-year-old, dies, and
they have various struggles for survival, with foul water killing many
of the animals they would rely on for food.  At last help comes in the
form of the local pastor, who has enlisted the aid of some men to row
him to wherever he is needed.

This book is pretty strong reading, and probably more of a tragedy than
any other category.

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THE SETTLERS AT HOME, BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.



CHAPTER ONE.

THE SETTLERS AT HOME.

Two hundred years ago, the Isle of Axholme was one of the most
remarkable places in England.  It is not an island in the sea.  It is a
part of Lincolnshire--a piece of land hilly in the middle, and
surrounded by rivers.  The Trent runs on the east side of it; and some
smaller rivers formerly flowed round the rest of it, joining the Humber
to the north.  These rivers carried down a great deal of mud with them
to the Humber, and the tides of the Humber washed up a great deal of
sea-sand into the mouths of the rivers; so that the waters could not for
some time flow freely, and were at last prevented from flowing away at
all: they sank into the ground, and made a swamp of it--a swamp of many
miles round the hilly part of the Isle of Axholme.

This swamp was long a very dismal place.  Fish, and water-birds, and
rats inhabited it: and here and there stood the hut of a fowler; or a
peat-stack raised by the people who lived on the hills round, and who
obtained their fuel from the peat-lands in the swamp.  There were also,
sprinkled over the district, a few very small houses--cells belonging to
the Abbey of Saint Mary, at York.  To these cells some of the monks from
Saint Mary's had been fond of retiring, in old times, for meditation and
prayer, and doing good in the district round; but when the soil became
so swampy as to give them the ague as often as they paid a visit to
these cells, the monks left off their practice of retiring hither; and
their little dwellings stood empty, to be gradually overgrown with green
moss and lank weeds, which no hand cleared away.

At last a Dutchman, having seen what wonders were done in his own
country by good draining, thought he could render this district fit to
be inhabited and cultivated; and he made a bargain with the king about
it.  After spending much money, and taking great pains, he succeeded.
He drew the waters off into new channels, and kept them there by
sluices, and by carefully watching the embankments he had raised.  The
land which was left dry was manured and cultivated, till, instead of a
reedy and mossy swamp, there were fields of clover and of corn, and
meadows of the finest grass, with cattle and sheep grazing in large
numbers.  The dwellings that were still standing were made into
farm-houses, and new farmhouses were built.  A church here, and a chapel
there was cleaned, and warmed, and painted, and opened for worship; and
good roads crossed the district into all the counties near.

Instead of being pleased with this change, the people of the country
were angry and discontented.  Those who lived near had been long
accustomed to fishing and fowling in the swamp, without paying any rent,
or having to ask anybody's leave.  They had no mind now to settle to the
regular toilsome business of farming,--and to be under a landlord, to
whom they must pay rent.  Probably, too, they knew nothing about
farming, and would have failed in it if they had tried.  Thus far they
were not to be blamed.  But nothing can exceed the malignity with which
they treated the tenants who did settle in the isle, and the spiteful
spirit which they showed towards them, on every occasion.

These tenants were chiefly foreigners.  There was a civil war in England
at that time: and the Yorkshire and Lincolnshire people were so much
engaged in fighting for King Charles or for the Parliament, that fewer
persons were at liberty to undertake new farms than there would have
been in a time of peace.  When the Dutchman and his companions found
that the English were not disposed to occupy the Levels (as the drained
lands were called), they encouraged some of their own countrymen to come
over.  With them arrived some few Frenchmen, who had been driven from
France into Holland, on account of their being Protestants.  From first
to last, there were about two hundred families, Dutch and French,
settled in the Levels.  Some were collected into a village, and had a
chapel opened, where a pastor of their own performed service for them.
Others were scattered over the district, living just where their
occupations required them to settle.

All these foreigners were subject to bad treatment from their
neighbours; but the stragglers were the worst off; because it was
easiest to tease and injure those who lived alone.  The disappointed
fishers and fowlers gave other reasons for their own conduct, besides
that of being nearly deprived of their fishing and fowling.  These
reasons were all bad, as reasons for hating always are.  One excuse was
that the new settlers were foreigners--as if those who were far from
their own land did not need particular hospitality and kindness.
Another plea was that they were connected with the king, by being
settled on the lands which he had bargained to have drained: so that all
who sided with the parliament ought to injure the new tenants, in order
to annoy the king.  If the settlers had tried to serve the king by
injuring his enemies, this last reason might have passed in a time of
war.  But it was not so.  It is probable that the foreigners did not
understand the quarrel.  At any rate, they took no part in it.  All they
desired was to be left in peace, to cultivate the lands they paid rent
for.  But instead of peace, they had little but persecution.

One of these settlers, Mr Linacre, was not himself a farmer.  He
supplied the farmers of the district with a manure of a particular kind,
which suited some of the richest soils they cultivated.  He found, in
the red soil of the isle, a large mass of that white earth, called
gypsum, which, when wetted and burnt, makes plaster of Paris; and which,
when ground, makes a fine manure for some soils, as the careful Dutchmen
well knew.  Mr Linacre set up a windmill on a little eminence which
rose out of the Level, just high enough to catch the wind; and there he
ground the gypsum which he dug from the neighbouring patch or quarry.
He had to build some out-houses, but not a dwelling-house; for, near his
mill, with just space enough for a good garden between, was one of the
largest of the old cells of the monks of Saint Mary's, so well built of
stone, and so comfortably arranged, that Mr Linacre had little to do
but to have it cleaned and furnished, and the windows and doors made
new, to fit it for the residence of his wife and children, and a
servant.

This building was round, and had three rooms below, and three over them.
A staircase of stone was in the very middle, winding round, like a
corkscrew,--leading to the upper rooms, and out upon the roof, from
which there was a beautiful view,--quite as far as the Humber to the
north-east, and to the circle of hills on every other side.  Each of the
rooms below had a door to the open air, and another to the staircase;--
very unlike modern houses, and not so fit as they to keep out wind and
cold.  But for this, the dwelling would have been very warm, for the
walls were of thick stone; and the fire-places were so large, that it
seemed as if the monks had been fond of good fires.  Two of these lower
rooms opened into the garden; and the third, the kitchen, into the
yard;--so that the maid, Ailwin, had not far to go to milk the cow and
feed the poultry.

Mrs Linacre was as neat in the management of her house as people from
Holland usually are; and she did not like that the sitting-room, where
her husband had his meals, and spent his evenings, should be littered by
the children, or used at all by them during her absence at her daily
occupation, in the summer.  So she let them use the third room for their
employments and their play.  Her occupation, every summer's day, was
serving out the waters from a mineral spring, a good deal frequented by
sick people, three miles from her house, on the way to Gainsborough.
She set off, after an early breakfast, in the cool of the morning, and
generally arrived at the hill-side where the spring was, and had
unlocked her little shed, and taken out her glasses, and rinsed them,
before any travellers passed.  It was rarely indeed that a sick person
had to wait a minute for her appearance.  There she sat, in her shed
when it rained, and under a tree when it was fine, sewing or knitting
very diligently when no customers appeared, and now and then casting a
glance over the Levels to the spot where her husband's mill rose in the
midst of the green fields, and where she almost fancied sometimes that
she could see the children sitting on the mill-steps, or working in the
garden.  When customers appeared, she was always ready in a moment to
serve them; and her smile cheered those who were sick, and pleased those
who came merely from curiosity.  She slipped the halfpence she received
into a pocket beneath her apron; and sometimes the pocket was such a
heavy one to carry three miles home, that she just stepped aside to the
village shop at Haxey, or into a farm-house where the people would be
going to market next day, to get her copper exchanged for silver.  Since
the times had become so troubled as they were now, however, she had
avoided showing her money anywhere on the road.  Her husband's advice
was that she should give up attending the spring altogether; but she
gained so much money by it, and it was so likely that somebody would
step into her place there as soon as she gave it up, so that she would
not be able to regain her office when quieter times should come, that
she entreated him to allow her to go on while she had no fears.  She
took the heavy gold ear-rings out of her ears, wore a plainer cap, and
left her large silver watch at home; so that she looked like a poor
woman whom no needy soldier or bold thief would think of robbing.  She
guessed by the sun what was the right time for locking up her glasses
and going home; and she commonly met her husband, coming to fetch her,
before she had got half-way.

The three children were sure to be perched on the top of the quarry
bank, or on the mill-steps, or out on the roof of the house, at the top
of the winding staircase.  Little George himself, though only two years
old, knew the very moment when he should shout and clap his hands, to
make his mother wave her handkerchief from the turn of the road.  Oliver
and Mildred did not exactly feel that the days were too long while their
mother was away, for they had plenty to do; but they felt that the best
part of the day was the hour between her return and their going to bed:
and, unlike people generally, they liked winter better than summer,
because at that season their mother never left them, except to go to the
shop, or the market at Haxey.

Though Oliver was only eleven, and Mildred nine, they were not too young
to have a great deal to do.  Oliver was really useful as a gardener; and
many a good dish of vegetables of his growing came to table in the
course of the year.  Mildred had to take care of the child almost all
day; she often prepared the cabbage, and cut the bacon for Ailwin to
broil.  She could also do what Ailwin could not,--she could sew a
little; and now and then there was an apron or a handkerchief ready to
be shown when Mrs Linacre came home in the evening.  If she met with
any difficulty in her job, the maid could not help her, but her father
sometimes could; and it was curious to see Mildred mounting the mill
when she was at any loss, and her father wiping the white plaster off
his hands, and taking the needle or the scissors in his great fingers,
rather than that his little girl should not be able to surprise her
mother with a finished piece of work.  Then, both Oliver and Mildred had
to learn their catechism, to say to Pastor Dendel on Sunday; and always
a copy or an exercise on hand, to be ready to show him when he should
call; and some book to finish that he had lent them to read, and that
others of his flock would be ready for when they had done.

Besides all this, there was an occupation which both boy and girl
thought more of than of all others together.  Among the loads of gypsum
that came to the mill, there were often pieces of the best kind,--lumps
of real, fine alabaster.  Alabaster is so soft as to be easily worked.
Even a finger-nail will make a mark upon it.  Everybody knows how
beautiful vases and little statues, well wrought in alabaster, look on a
mantelpiece, or a drawing-room table.  Oliver had seen such in France,
where they are very common: and his father had carried one or two
ornaments of this kind into Holland, when he had to leave France.  It
was a great delight for Oliver to find, on settling in Axholme, that he
could have as much alabaster as he pleased, if he could only work it.
With a little help from Pastor Dendel and his father, he soon learned to
do so; and of all his employments, he liked this the best.  Pastor
Dendel brought him a few bowls and cups of pretty shapes and different
sizes, made of common wood by a turner, who was one of his flock; and
Oliver first copied these in clay, and then in alabaster.  By degrees he
learned to vary his patterns, and at last to make his clay models from
fancies of his own,--some turning out failures, and others prettier than
any of his wooden cups.  These last he proceeded to carve out of
alabaster.

Mildred could not help watching him while he was about his favourite
work, though it was difficult to keep little George from tossing the
alabaster about, and stamping on the best pieces, or sucking them.  He
would sometimes give his sister a few minutes' peace and quiet by
rolling the wooden bowls the whole length of the room, and running after
them: and there was also an hour, in the middle of the day, when he went
to sleep in his large Dutch cradle.  At those times Mildred would
consult with her brother about his work; or sew or watch him by turns;
or read one of the pastor's little books, stopping occasionally to
wonder whether Oliver could attend at once to his carving, and to what
she was reading.  When she saw that he was spoiling any part, or that
his hand was shaking, she would ask whether he had not been at work long
enough; and then they would run out to the garden or the quarry, or to
jump George (if he was awake again) from the second mill-step.

One fine month of August, not a breath of wind had been blowing for a
week or two, so that the mill-sails had not made a single turn; not a
load of gypsum had been brought during the time, and Oliver was quite
out of alabaster; though, as it happened, he much wanted a good supply,
for a particular reason.  Every morning he brought out his tools; and
every morning the sky was so clear, the corn-fields so still--the very
trees so silent, that he wondered whether there had ever been so calm a
month of August before.  His father and he employed their time upon the
garden, while they had so good an opportunity.  Before it was all put in
order, and the entire stock of autumn cabbages set, there came a breezy
day; and the children were left to finish the cabbage patch by
themselves.  While they were at work, it made them merry to hear the
mill-sails whirring through the air, and to see, at intervals, the trees
above the quarry bowing their heads, and the reeds waving in the swamp,
and the water of the meadow-ponds dimpling and rippling, as the wind
swept over the Levels.  Oliver soon heard something that he liked better
still--the creak of the truck that brought the gypsum from the quarry,
and the crack of the driver's whip.

He threw down the dibble with which he was planting out his cabbages--
tripped over the line he had set to direct his drilling, tumbled on his
face, scrambled up again, and ran, rubbing the dirt from his knees as he
went, to look out some alabaster from the load.

Mildred was not long after him, though he called to her that she had
better stay and finish the cabbages, and though little George,
immediately on feeling himself at liberty, threw himself upon the fresh
mould of the cabbage bed, and amused himself with pulling up, and
flinging right and left, the plants that had just been set.  How could
Mildred attend to this, when she was sure she was wanted to turn over
the gypsum, and see what she could find?  So Master George went on with
his pranks, till Ailwin, by accident, saw him from the yard, ran and
snatched him up, flung him over her shoulder, and carried him away
screaming, till, to pacify him, she set him down among the poultry,
which he presently found more amusing than young cabbage plants.

"Now we shall have a set of new cups for the spring, presently," said
Oliver, as he measured lump after lump with his little foot-rule.

"Cups for the waters!" exclaimed his father.  "So that is the reason of
this prodigious hurry, is it, my boy?  You think tin cups not good
enough for your mother, or for her customers, or for the waters.  Which
of them do you think ought to be ashamed of tin cups?"

"The water, most of all.  Instead of sparkling in a clear bright glass,
it looks as nasty as it tastes in a thing that is more brown and rusty
every time it is dipped.  I will give the folk a pair of cups that shall
tempt them to drink--a pair of cups as white as milk."

"They will not long remain white: and those who broke the glasses will
be the more bent upon spoiling your cups, the more pains you spend upon
them."

"I hope the Redfurns will not happen to hear of them.  We need not blab;
and the folk who drink the waters go their way, as soon as they have
done."

"Whether the Redfurns be here or there, my boy, there is no want of
prying eyes to see all that the poor foreigners do.  Your mother is
watched, it is my belief, every time she dips her cup; and I in the
mill, and you in the garden.  There is no hope of keeping anything from
our enemies."

Seeing Oliver look about him uneasily, Mr Linacre reproached himself
for having said anything to alarm his timid boy: so he added what he
himself always found the most comforting thought, when he felt disturbed
at living among unkind neighbours.

"Let them watch us, Oliver.  We do nothing that we need be ashamed of.
The whole world is welcome to know how we live,--all we do, from year's
end to year's end."

"Yes, if they would let us alone, father.  But it is so hard to have our
things broken and spoiled!"

"So it is; and to know what ill-natured talk is going on about us.  But
we must let them take their own way, and bear it as well as we can; for
there is no help for it."

"I wish I were a justice!" cried Mildred.  "How I would punish them,
every one!"

"Then I wish you were a justice, my dear; for we cannot get anybody
punished as it is."

"Mildred," said Oliver, "I wish you would finish the cabbages.  You know
they must be done; and I am very busy."

"Oh, Oliver!  I am such a little thing to plant a whole cabbage bed.
You will be able to come by and by; I want to help you."

"You cannot help me, dear: and you know how to do the cabbages as well
as anybody.  You really cannot help me."

"Well, I want to see you then."

"There is nothing to see yet.  You will have done, if you make haste,
before I begin to cut.  Do, dear!"

"Well, I will," replied Mildred, cheerfully.  Her father caught her up,
and gave her one good jump down the whole flight of steps, then bidding
her work away before the plants were all withered and dead.

She did work away, till she was so hot and tired that she had to stop
and rest.  There were still two rows to plant; and she thought she
should never get through them,--or at any rate, not before Oliver had
proceeded a great way with his carving.  She was going to cry; but she
remembered how that would vex Oliver: so she restrained herself, and ran
to ask Ailwin whether she could come and help.  Ailwin always did what
everybody asked her; so she gave over sorting feathers, and left them
all about, while she went down the garden.

Mildred knew she must take little George away, or he would be making
confusion among the feathers that had been sorted.  She invited him to
go with her, and peep over the hedge at the geese in the marsh; and the
little fellow took her fore-finger, and trotted away with his sister to
the hedge.

There were plenty of water-fowl in the marsh; and there was something
else which Mildred did not seem to like.  While George was
quack-quacking, and making himself as like a little goose as he could,
Mildred softly called to Ailwin, and beckoned her to the hedge.  Ailwin
came, swinging the great spade in her right hand, as easily as Mildred
could flourish George's whip.

"Look,--look there!--under that bank, by the <DW18>!" said Mildred, as
softly as if she had been afraid of being heard at a yard's distance.

"Eh!  Look--if it be not the gipsies!" cried Ailwin, almost as loud as
if she had been talking across the marsh.  "Eh dear!  We have got the
gipsies upon us now; and what will become of my poultry?  Yon is a gipsy
tent, sure; and we must tell the master and mistress, and keep an eye on
the poultry.  Sure, yon is a gipsy tent."

Little George, thinking that everybody was very much frightened, began
to roar; and that made Ailwin talk louder still, to comfort him; so that
nothing that Mildred said was heard.  At last, she pulled Ailwin's
apron, so that the tall woman stooped down, to ask what she wanted.

"I do not think it is the gipsies," said she.  "I am afraid it is worse
than that.  I am afraid it is the Redfurns.  This is just the way they
settle themselves--in just that sort of tent--when they come to fowl,
all autumn."

"If I catch that Roger," said Ailwin, "I'll--."  And she clenched her
hand, as if she meant to do terrible things, if she caught Roger.

"I will go and call father, shall I?" said Mildred, her teeth
chattering, as she stood in the hot sun.

She was turning to go up the garden, when a laugh from George made her
look back again.  She saw a head covered with an otter-skin cap,--the
face looking very cross and threatening, peeping over the hedge,--which
was so high above the marsh, that the person must have climbed the bank
on purpose to look into the garden.  There was no mistaking the face.
It was certainly Roger Redfurn--the plague of the settlers, who, with
his uncle, Stephen Redfurn, was always doing all the mischief he could
to everybody who had, as he said, trespassed on the marshes.  Nobody
liked to see the Redfurns sitting down in the neighbourhood; and still
less, skulking about the premises.  Mildred flew towards the mill; while
Ailwin, who never stopped to consider what was wise, and might not,
perhaps, have hit upon wisdom if she had, took up a stone, and told
Roger he had better be gone, for that he had no friends here.  Roger
seemed to have just come from some orchard; for he pulled a hard apple
out of his pocket, aimed it at Ailwin's head, and struck her such a blow
on the nose as made her eyes water.  While she was wiping her eyes with
her apron, and trying to see again, Roger coaxed the child to bring him
his apple again, and disappeared.

When Mildred reached the mill, she found Pastor Dendel there, talking
with her father about sending some manure to his land.  The pastor was
so busy, that he only gave her a nod; and she had therefore time to
recover herself, instead of frightening everybody with her looks and her
news at once.  Oliver could not stay in the house while the pastor was
at the mill: so he stood behind him, chipping away at the rough part of
his work.  Mildred whispered to him that the Redfurns were close at
hand.  She saw Oliver turn very red, though he told her not to be
frightened.  Perhaps the pastor perceived this too, when he turned
round, for he said--

"What is the matter, children?  Mildred, what have you been doing, that
you are so out of breath?  Have you been running all the way from
Lincoln spire?"

"No, sir; not running--but--"

"The Redfurns are come, sir," cried Oliver.  "Father, the Redfurns are
come."

"Roger has been peeping over the hedge into the garden," cried Mildred,
sinking into tears.

The miller looked grave, and said here was an end of all peace, for some
time to come.

"Are you all at the mercy of a boy like Roger Redfurn," asked the
pastor, "so that you look as if a plague had come with this fresh
breeze?"

"And his uncle, sir."

"And his aunt," added Mildred.

"You know what Stephen Redfurn is, sir," observed Mr Linacre.  "Roger
beats even him for mischief.  And we are at their mercy, sir.  There is
not a magistrate, as you know, that will hear a complaint from one of us
against the country-people.  We get nothing but trouble, and expense,
and ridicule, by making complaints.  We know this beforehand; for the
triumph is always on the other side."

"It is hard," said the pastor: "but still,--here is only a man, a woman,
and a boy.  Cannot you defend yourselves against them?"

"No, sir; because they are not an honourable enemy," replied Mr
Linacre.  "If Stephen would fight it out with me on even ground, we
would see who would beat: and I dare say my boy there, though none of
the roughest, would stand up against Roger.  But such fair trials do not
suit them, sir.  People who creep through drains, to do us mischief, and
hide in the reeds when we are up and awake, and come in among us only
when we are asleep, are a foe that may easily ruin any honest man, who
cannot get protection from the law.  They houghed my cow, two years ago,
sir."

"And they mixed all mother's feathers, for the whole year," exclaimed
Mildred.

"And they blinded my dog," cried Oliver;--"put out its eyes."

"Oh!  What will they do next?" said Mildred, looking up through her
tears at the pastor.

"Worse things than even these have been done to some of the people in my
village," replied the pastor: "and they have been borne, Mildred,
without tears."

Mildred made haste to wipe her eyes.

"And what do you think, my dears, of the life our Protestant brethren
are leading now, in some parts of the world?"

"Father came away from France because he was ill-used for being a
Protestant," said Oliver.

"The pastor knows all about that, my boy," observed Mr Linacre.

"Yes, I do," said the pastor.  "I know that you suffered worse things
there than here; and I know that things worse than either are at present
endured by our brethren in Piedmont.  You have a warm house over your
heads; and you live in sunshine and plenty.  They are driven from their
villages, with fire and sword--forced to shelter among the snow-drifts,
and pent up in caves till they rush out starving, to implore mercy of
their scoffing persecutors.  Could you bear this, children?"

"They suffer these things for their religion," observed Oliver.  "They
feel that they are martyrs."

"Do you think there is comfort in that thought,--in the pride of
martyrdom,--to the son who sees his aged parents perish by the
wayside,--to the mother whose infant is dashed against the rock before
her eyes?"

"How _do_ they bear it all, then?"

"They keep one another in mind that it is God's will, my dears; and that
obedient children can, if they try, bear all that God sees fit to lay
upon them.  So they praise His name with a strong heart, though their
voices be weak.  Morning and night, those mountains echo with hymns;
though death, in one form or another, is about the sufferers on every
side.

"My dear," said Mr Linacre, "let us make no more complaints about the
Redfurns.  I am ashamed, when I think of our brethren abroad, that we
ever let Stephen and Roger put us up to anger.  You will see no more
tears here, sir, I hope."

"Mildred will not quite promise that," said the pastor, smiling kindly
on the little girl.  "Make no promises, my dear, that a little girl like
you may be tempted to break.  Only try to forgive all people who tease
and injure you; and remember that nothing more ever happens than God
permits,--though He does not yet see fit to let us know why."

"I would only just ask this, sir," said Mr Linacre.  "Is there anything
going forward just now which particularly encourages our enemies to
attack us?"

"The parliament have a committee sitting at Lincoln, at present; and the
king's cause seems to be low in these parts.  We are thus at the mercy
of such as choose to consider us king's men: but there is a higher and
truer mercy always about us."

The miller took off his hat in token of respect.

The pastor's eye had been upon Oliver for some time.  He now asked
whether he meant to make his new cups plain, like all the rest, or to
try to ornament them.  Mildred assured him that Oliver had carved a
beading round the two last bowls that he had cut.

"I think you might attempt something far prettier than beading," said
the pastor; "particularly with so many patterns before your eyes to work
by."

He was looking up at the little recess above the door of the house, near
which they were standing.  This recess, in which there had formerly been
an image, was surrounded with carved stone-work.

"I see some foliage there which would answer your purpose, Oliver, if
you could make a model from it.  Let us look closer."

And Pastor Dendel fixed a short ladder against the house wall, and went
up, with Oliver before him.  They were so busy selecting the figures
that Oliver thought he could copy, and drawing them upon paper, and then
setting about modelling them in clay, that the Redfurns did not prevent
their being happy for this day, at least.  Mr Linacre, too, was hard at
work all day, grinding, that the pastor's manure might be served
to-morrow; and he found hard work as good for an anxious mind as those
who have tried generally find it to be.



CHAPTER TWO.

NEIGHBOURLY OFFICES.

When Mrs Linacre was told in the evening of the arrival of the
disagreeable neighbours who were in the marsh, she was sorry; but when
she had gone round the premises with her husband at night, and found all
safe, and no tokens of any intrusion, she was disposed to hope that the
Redfurns would, this time, keep to their fishing and fowling, and make
no disturbance.  Oliver and Mildred crept down to the garden hedge at
sunrise, and peeped through it, so as to see all that was doing in the
carr, as the marsh was called.  [In that part of the country, a carr
means a morass.] After watching some time, they saw Stephen and Roger
creep out from under the low brown tent.  As the almost level sun shone
full in their faces, they rubbed their eyes; then they stretched and
yawned, and seemed to be trying hard to wake themselves thoroughly.

"They have been sound asleep, however," observed Oliver to his sister;
"and it is still so early, that I do not believe they have been abroad
about mischief in the night.  They would not have been awake yet if they
had."

"Look!  There is a woman!" exclaimed Mildred.  "Is that Nan?"

"Yes; that is Nan Redfurn,--Stephen's wife.  That is their great net
that she has over her arm.  They are going to draw the oval pond, I
think.  We can watch their sport nicely here.  They cannot see an inch
of us."

"But we do not like that they should watch us," said Mildred, drawing
back.  "We should not like to know that they were peeping at us from
behind a hedge."

"We should not mind it if we were not afraid of them," replied Oliver.
"It is because they plot mischief that we cannot bear their prying.  We
are not going to do them any mischief, you know; and they cannot mean to
make any secret of what they are doing in the middle of the carr, with
high ground all about it."  Satisfied by this, Mildred crouched down,
with her arm about her brother's neck, and saw the great net cast, and
the pond almost emptied of its fish,--some few being kept for food, and
the small fry--especially of the stickleback--being thrown into heaps,
to be sold for manure.

"Will they come this way when they have done drawing the pond?" asked
Mildred, in some fear, as she saw them moving about.

"I think they will sweep the shallow waters, there to the left, for more
stickleback," replied Oliver.  "They will make up a load, to sell before
the heat of the day, before they set about anything else."

Oliver was right.  All the three repaired to the shallow water, and
stood among the reeds, so as to be half hidden.  The children could see,
however, that when little George came down the garden, shouting to them
to come to breakfast, the strangers took heed to the child.  They turned
their heads for a moment towards the garden, and then spoke together and
laughed.

"There, now!" cried Oliver, vexed: "that is all because we forgot to go
to breakfast.  So much for my not having a watch!  Mother need not have
sent George to make such a noise; but, if I had had a watch, he would
not have come at all; and these people would not have been put in mind
of us."

"You will soon be able to have a watch now, like the boys in Holland,"
said Mildred.  "Your alabaster things will change away for a watch; will
not they?  But we might not have remembered breakfast, if you had had a
watch."

"We are forgetting it now," said Oliver, catching up George and running
to the house, followed by Mildred, who could not help feeling as if
Roger was at her heels.

They were surprised to find how late it was.  Their father was already
gone with Pastor Dendel's load of manure.  Their mother only waited to
kiss them before she went, and to tell them the their father meant to be
back as soon as he could; and that meantime, neighbour Gool had promised
to keep an eye on the mill.  If anything happened to frighten them,
Oliver or Ailwin had only to set the mill-sails agoing, and neighbour
Gool and his men would be with them presently.  She did not think,
however, that anything would happen in the little time that their father
would be away.

"I will tell you what we will do!" cried Oliver, starting from his
chair, after he had been eating his bread and milk, in silence, for some
time after his mother's departure.  "Let us dress up a figure to look
like father, and set him at the mill-window; so that those Redfurns
shall not find out that he is away.  Won't that be good?"

"Put him on the mill-steps.  They may not look up at the window."

"The mill-steps, then.  Where is father's old hat?  Put it on the broom
there, and see how it looks.  Run up to the mill, dear, and bring his
jacket--and his apron," he shouted as his sister ran.

Mildred brought both, and they dressed up the broom.

"That will never do," said Mildred.  "Look how the sleeves hang; and how
he holds his head!  It is not a bit like a man."

"'Tis a good scarecrow," declared Ailwin.  "I have seen many a worse
scarecrow than that."

"But this is to scare the Redfurns, and they are far wiser than crows,"
said Mildred.  "Look how George pulls at the apron, and tugs at the
broomstick behind!  It does not scare even him."

"It will look very different on the steps--in the open air," Oliver
declared.  "A bunch or two of straw in the sleeves, and under the
jacket, will make it seem all alive."

And he carried it out, and tied it upon the mill-steps.  It was no easy
matter to fasten it so as to make it look at all like a man naturally
mounting stairs.  The more difficult it was, however, the more they all
became interested in the business.  Mildred brought straw, and Ailwin
tied a knot here, and another knot there, while Oliver cocked the hat in
various directions upon the head, till they all forgot what they were
dressing up the figure for.  The reason popped into Ailwin's head again,
when she had succeeded in raising the right arm to the rail, in a very
life-like manner.

"There!" said she, stepping backwards to view her work, "that makes a
very good master for me.  I will obey him in everything he bids me till
master comes home."

At the same moment, she walked backwards against something, and little
George clung screaming to Mildred's knees.  Roger had spread his arms
for Ailwin to walk back into; and Stephen was behind, leaning against
the cow-shed.  They had been watching all that the party had been doing,
and, having overheard every word, had found out the reason.

The children saw at once how very foolish they had been; and the thought
confused them so much, that they did not know what to do next.  Poor
Ailwin, who could never learn wisdom, more or less, now made matters
worse by all she said and did.  Stout and strong as she was, she could
do nothing, for Roger had taken the hint she had given by walking
backwards, with her arms crossed behind her: he had pinioned her.  She
cried out to Oliver to run up, and set the mill-sails agoing, to bring
neighbour Gool.  Stephen took this second hint.  He quietly swung Oliver
off the steps, sent down his scarecrow after him, and himself took his
seat on the threshold of the mill.  There he sat, laughing to see how
Ailwin wearied herself with struggles, while Roger, by merely hanging on
her arms, prevented her getting free.  When, however, Oliver flew at the
boy, and struck him some fierce blows, Stephen came down, drove the
little girl and the baby into the house, and locked them in, and then
went to help Roger with his strong arm.

It was clear to Mildred what she ought to do.  Crying as she was, she
put George in a corner, with some playthings, to keep him from the fire
till she came to him again, and then mounted the stairs, as quickly as
her trembling limbs would let her,--first to her mother's room, and then
out upon the roof.  She tied a large red handkerchief of her mother's
upon her father's Sunday walking-stick, and then waved it, as high as
she could hold it, above her head, while she considered how she could
fasten it; for it would never do to leave George alone below for many
minutes.  Perhaps neighbour Gool had seen it already, and would soon be
here with his men.  But, lest he should not, she must fix her flag, and
trust to Stephen and Roger not thinking of looking up to the roof from
the yard below.  At last, after many attempts, she thrust the stick into
a crevice of the roof, and fixed it with heavy things round it,--having
run down three or four times, to see that George was safe.

There was, indeed, no time to be lost, for the intruders below were
doing all the mischief they could think of, short of robbing and burning
the premises.  The great tall man, Stephen, strolling about the lower
rooms, found Mrs Linacre's knitting, and pulled out the needles, and
unravelled the work.  Roger spied a heap of bulbs on the corner of a
high shelf.  They were Mr Linacre's rare and valuable tulip-roots,
brought from Holland.  Roger cut one of them open, to see what it looked
like, and then threw the whole lot into the boiler, now steaming over
the fire, saying the family should have a dish the more at dinner
to-day.  They got hold of Oliver's tools, and the cup he was at work
upon.  Stephen raised his arm, about to dash the cup to the ground, when
Oliver sprang forward, and said--

"You shall have it,--you shall have my cup;--you don't know what a
beauty it will be, when it is done.  Only let me finish it, and you
shall have it in exchange for the stickleback you caught this morning.
The stickleback will do to manure our garden; and I am sure you will
like the cup, if you will only let me finish it."

"Manure your garden, indeed!" cried Stephen, gruffly.  "I'll cut up your
garden to shreds first.  What business has your garden in our carr?  You
and your great landlord will find what it is to set your outlandish
plants growing where our geese ought to be grazing.  We'll show you that
we don't want any foreigners here; and if you don't like our usage, you
may go home again; and nobody will cry for you back."

"We pay for our garden and our mill," said Oliver.  "We wrong nobody,
and we work for our living, and you are a very cruel man."

"You pay the king: and the parliament does not choose that the king
should have any more money to spend against them.  Mind you that, boy!
And--"

"I am sure I don't know anything about the king and the parliament, or
any such quarrels," said Oliver.  "It is very hard to punish us for
them, it is very cruel."

"You shall have reason to call me cruel twenty times over, if you don't
get away out of our carr," said Stephen.  "Manure your garden, indeed!
Not I!  And you shall not manure another yard in these Levels.  Come
here, Roger."

They went out again into the yard, and Oliver, now quite overcome, laid
down his head on his arms, and cried bitterly.

"Here's your cup, however," said Ailwin, now released by Roger's being
employed elsewhere.  "This bit of plaster is the only thing they have
laid hands on that they have not ruined."  Oliver started up, and hid
his work and tools in a bundle of straw, in the corner of the kitchen.

"What Mildred will say, I don't know," said Ailwin.  "That boy has wrung
the neck of her white hen."

Oliver was desperate on hearing this.  He ran out to see whether he
could not, by any means, get into the mill, to set the sails agoing: but
there were Stephen and Roger, carrying water, which they threw over all
the gypsum that was ground,--floating away as much as they could of it,
and utterly spoiling the rest, by turning it into a plaster.

"Did you ever see the like?" cried Ailwin.  "And there is nothing master
is so particular about as keeping that stuff dry.  See the woman, too!
How I'd like to tug the hair off her head!  She looks badly, poor
creature, too."

Stephen's wife had, indeed, come up to enjoy the sport, when she found
that no man was on the premises, and that there was no danger.  There
she stood, leaning against a post of the mill, her black, untidy hair
hanging about her pale, hollow cheeks, and her lean arms crossed upon
her bosom.

"There were such ague-struck folk to be seen at every turn," said
Ailwin, "before the foreigners came to live in the carr.  I suppose they
brought some healing with them; for one does not often see now such a
poor creature as that.  She might be ashamed of herself,--that woman;
she laughs all her poor sides can, at every pailful Roger pours out.--
Eh!  But she's not laughing now!  Eh!  What's the matter now?"

The matter was that neighbour Gool was in sight, with three or four men.
A cheer was heard from them while they were still some way off.  Oliver
ran out and cheered, waving his hat over his head.  Ailwin cheered,
waving a towel out of the window.  Mildred cheered from the roof, waving
her red flag; and George stood in the doorway, shouting and clapping his
little hands.

If the object was to catch the trespassers, all this cheering took place
a little too soon.  Stephen and Roger were off, like their own
wild-ducks,--over the garden hedge, and out of sight.  Neighbour Gool
declared that if they were once fairly among the reeds in the marsh, it
would be sheer waste of time to search for them; for they could dodge
and live in the water, in a way that honest people that lived on proper
hard ground could not follow.  Here was the woman; and yonder was the
tent.  Revenge might be taken that way, better than by ducking in the
ponds after the man and boy.  Suppose they took the woman to prison, and
made a great fire in the carr, of the tent and everything in it!

Oliver did not see that it could make up to them for what they had lost,
to burn the tent; and he was pretty sure his father would not wish such
a thing to be done.  His father would soon be home.  As for the woman,
he thought she ought to go to prison, if Mr Gool would take her there.

"That I will," said Gool.  "I will go through with the thing now I am in
it.  I came off the minute I saw your red flag; and I might have been
here sooner, if I had not been so full of watching the mill-sails, that
I never looked off from them till my wife came to help to watch.  Come,
you woman," said he to Nan Redfurn, "make no faces about going to
prison, for I am about to give you a ride there."

"She looks very ill," thought Oliver,--"not fit to be jolted on a
horse."

"You'll get no magistrate to send me to prison," said the woman.  "The
justices are with the parliament, every one.  You will only have to
bring me back, and be sorry you caught me, when you see what comes of
it."

"Cannot we take care of her here till father comes home?" said Oliver,
seeing that neighbour Gool looked perplexed, and as if he believed what
the woman said.

"No, no," said Mildred, whispering to her brother.  "Don't let that
woman stay here."

"Neighbour Gool will take care of us till father comes home," said
Oliver: "and the woman looks so ill!  We can lock her up here: and, you
see, Ailwin is ever so much stronger than she is, poor thing!"

Neighbour Gool put on an air of being rather offended that nothing great
was to be done, after his trouble in coming to help.  In his heart,
however, he was perhaps not very sorry; for he knew that the magistrates
were not willing to countenance the king's settlers in the Levels, while
the Parliament Committee was sitting at Lincoln.  Gool patted Oliver's
head when the boy thanked him for coming; and he joked Mildred about her
flag: so he could not be very cross.  He left two men to guard the
prisoner and the premises, till Mr Linacre should return.

These two men soon left off marching about the garden and yard, and sat
down on the mill-steps; for the day grew very hot.  There they sat
talking in the shade, till their dinners should be ready.  Nan Redfurn
was so far from feeling the day to be hot, that when her cold ague-fit
came on, she begged to be allowed to go down to the kitchen fire.
Little George stood staring at her for some time, and then ran away; and
Mildred, not liking to be in the same room with a woman who looked as
she did, and who was a prisoner, stole out too, though she had been
desired to watch the woman till dinner should be ready.  Ailwin was so
struck with compassion, that she fetched her warmest woollen stockings
and her winter cloak of linsey-woolsey,--it was such a piteous thing to
hear a woman's teeth chattering in her head, in that way, at noon in the
middle of August.  Having wrapped her up, she put her on a stool, close
to the great kitchen fire; and drew out the screen that was used only in
winter, to keep off the draughts from the door.  If the poor soul was
not warm in that corner, nothing could make her so.  Then Ailwin began
to sing to cheer her heart, and to be amazingly busy in cooking dinner
for three additional persons.  She never left off her singing but when
she out went for the vegetables, and other things she wanted for her
cooking; and when she came in again she resumed her song,--still for the
sake of the poor creature behind the screen.

"Do you feel yourself warmer now, neighbour?" said she at the end of an
hour.  "If not, you are past my understanding."

There was no answer; and Ailwin did not wonder, as she said to herself,
that it was too great a trouble for one so poorly to be answering
questions: so Ailwin went on slicing her vegetables and singing.

"Do you think a drop of cherry-brandy would warm you, neighbour?" she
asked, after a while.  "I wonder I never thought of that before; only,
it is a sort of thing one does not recollect till winter comes.  Shall I
get you a sup of cherry-brandy?"

Ailwin thought it so odd that such an offer as this should not be
replied to, that she looked hastily behind the screen, to see what could
be the reason.  There was reason enough.  Nobody was there.  Nan Redfurn
had made her way out as soon as she found herself alone, and was gone,
with Ailwin's best winter stockings and linsey-woolsey cloak.

In a minute the whole party were looking over the hedge into the marsh.
Nothing was to be seen but the low brown tent, and the heap of little
fish.  Neither man, woman, nor boy appeared when their names were
shouted forth.

"Oh!  My best stockings!" said Ailwin, half crying.

"You have saved your cherry-brandy, my woman, that is certain," observed
one of Gool's men.

"I shall never have any pleasure in it," sighed the maid.  "I shall
never enjoy it on account of its reminding me how yon woman has fooled
me."

"Then we will save you that pain," said the man.  "If you will oblige us
with it to-day we won't leave any to pain you in the winter."

"For shame," cried Oliver, "when you know she has lost her stockings and
her cloak already!  And all out of kindness!  I would not drink a drop
of her cherry-brandy, I am sure."

"Then you shall, Oliver, for saying so, and taking my part," said
Ailwin.  "I am not going to give it to anyone else that has not the
ague; some people may be assured of that."

"If I thought there was any cherry-brandy for me when I came back," said
the man, throwing a stone down to try the nature of the bog-ground
beneath, "I would get below there, and try what I could find.  I might
lay hold of a linsey-woolsey cloak somewhere in the bog."

"You can never catch the Redfurns, I doubt," said Ailwin.  "What was it
they said to you, Oliver, as they were going off?"

"They laughed at me for not being able to catch eels, and asked how I
thought I should catch _them_.  They said when I could decoy wild-fowl,
I might set a trap for the Redfurns.  But it does not follow that that
is all true because they said it.  I don't see but they might be caught
if there was anyone to do us justice afterwards.  That's the worst part
of it, father says."

"There's father!" cried Mildred, as the crack of a whip was heard.  All
started off, as if to see who could carry bad news fastest.  All arrived
in the yard together, except Ailwin, who turned back to take up George,
as he roared at being left behind.

"We must want a wise head or two among us," said the vexed miller.  "If
we were as sharp as these times require, we surely could not be at the
mercy of folk we should scorn to be like.  We must give more heed and
see what is to be done."

"Rather late for that, neighbour, when here is the stock you were
grinding and grinding for a week, all gone to plaster," said one of
Gool's men.

"That is what I say," replied the miller, contemplating the waste; "but
it may be better late than not at all."

Mrs Linacre was more affected than her husband by what had happened.
When she came home, poor Mildred's fortitude had just given way, and she
was crying over the body of her dear white hen.  This caused Ailwin's
eyes to fill at the thought of her stockings and cloak, so that the
family faces looked cheerless enough.

"We deserve it all," said Mrs Linacre, "for leaving our place and our
children to the care of Gool's men, or of anybody but ourselves.  I will
go no more to the spring.  I have been out of my duty; and we may be
thankful that we have been no further punished."

As she spoke a few tears started.  Her tears were so rare, that the
children looked in dismay at their father.

He gently declared that the more injury they suffered from the
country-people the more they needed all the earnings they could make.
They must cling to the means of an honest maintenance, and not throw
away such an employment as hers.  He would not leave the children again
while the Redfurns were in the neighbourhood.  He would not have left
them to-day, to serve anyone but the pastor; nor to serve even him, if
he had not thought he had bespoken sufficient protection.  Nothing
should take him from home, or his eye off the children, to-morrow, she
might depend upon it.

Mrs Linacre said that if she must go she should take a heavy heart with
her.  This was, she feared, but the first of a fresh series of attacks.
If so, what might not they look for next?  However, she only asked to be
found in her duty.  If her husband desired her to go, she would go; but
she should count over the hours of the day sadly enough.

Oliver ventured to bring up an old subject.  He said what he most wanted
was to have earned money enough to get a watch.  He was sure he could
hide it so that Roger should never guess he had one; and it would be
such a comfort to know exactly how the time was going, and when to look
for his mother home, instead of having to guess, in cloudy weather, the
hour of the day, and to argue the matter with Ailwin, who was always
wrong about that particular thing.

His father smiled mournfully, as he observed, that he hoped Oliver would
never so want bread as to leave off longing for anything made of gold or
silver.



CHAPTER THREE.

ONE WAY OF MAKING WAR.

Mrs Linacre went to the spring as usual, the next morning.  If the
weather had been doubtful--if there had been any pretence for supposing
that the day might not be fine, she would have remained at home.  But
she looked in vain all round the sky for a cloud: and the wide expanse
of fields and meadows in the Levels, with their waving corn and fresh
green grass, seemed to bask in the sunshine, as if they felt its luxury.
It was a glowing August day;--just such a day as would bring out the
invalids from Gainsborough to drink the waters;--just such a day as
would tempt the traveller to stop under the shady shed, where he could
see waters bubbling up, and taste of the famous medicinal spring, which
would cure the present evil of heat, whatever effect it might have on
any more lasting ailment.  It was just the day when Mrs Linacre must
not be missed from her post, and when it would be wrong to give up the
earnings which she might expect before sun-down.  So she desired her
children not to leave the premises,--not even to go out of their
father's sight and hearing; and left them, secure, at least, that they
would obey her wishes.

They were quite willing to do so.  Mildred looked behind her, every few
minutes, while she worked in the garden, to see whether Roger was not
there, and at every rustle that the birds made among the trees on the
Red-hill,--the eminence behind the house,--she fancied that some one was
hidden there.  Oliver let his tools and his alabaster lie hidden, much
as he longed to be at work with them.  Mildred had lost her greatest
treasure,--the white hen.  He must take care of his greatest treasure.
Twice, in the course of the morning, he went in, having thought of a
safer place; and twice more he put them back among the straw, as safest
there after all.  He let them alone at last, on Mildred saying that she
was afraid Roger might somehow discover why he went in and out so often.

They ran to the mill three or four times to tell their father that the
brown tent was still under the bank in the carr, and that they could see
nobody; though the wild-ducks and geese made such a fluttering and
noise, now and then, that it seemed as if some one was lurking about the
ponds.  Often in the course of the morning, too, did Mr Linacre look
out of the mill-window, or nod to them from the top of the steps, that
they might see that he did not forget them.  Meantime, the white smoke
curled up from the kitchen chimney, as Ailwin cooked the dinner; and
little George's voice and hers were often heard from within, as if they
were having some fun together.

The children were very hot, and began to say that they were hungry, and
thought dinner-time was near, when they suddenly felt a strong rush of
wind from the west.  Oliver lost his cap, and was running after it, when
both heard a loud shout from their father, and looked up.  They had
never heard him shout so loud as he now did, bidding them run up the
Red-hill that moment.  He waved his arm and his cap in that direction,
as if he was mad.  Mildred scampered up the hill.  She did not know why,
nor what was the meaning of the rolling, roaring thunder which seemed to
convulse the air: but her head was full of Roger; and she thought it was
some mischief of his.  One part of the Red-hill was very steep, and the
ground soft.  Her feet slipped on the moss first, and when she had got
above the moss, the red earth crumbled; and she went back at every step,
till she caught hold of some brambles, and then of the trunk of a tree;
so that, trembling and panting, she reached at last the top of the
eminence.

When she looked round, she saw a rushing, roaring river where the garden
had been, just before.  Rough waters were dashing up against the hill on
which she stood,--against the house,--and against the mill.  She saw the
flood spreading, as rapidly as the light at sunrise, over the whole
expanse of the Levels.  She saw another flood bursting in from the
Humber, on the north-east, and meeting that which had just swept by;--
she saw the two floods swallowing up field after field, meadow after
meadow, splashing up against every house, and surrounding all, so that
the roofs, and the stacks beside them, looked like so many little
islands.  She saw these things in a moment, but did not heed them till
afterwards,--for, where was Oliver?

Oliver was safe, though it was rather a wonder that he was so,
considering his care for his cap.  Oliver was an orderly boy, accustomed
to take great care of his things; and it did not occur to him to let his
cap go, when he had to run for his life.  He had to part with it,
however.  He was flying after it, when another shout from his father
made him look round; and then he saw the wall of water, as he called it,
rolling on directly upon the house.  He gave a prodigious spring across
the garden ditch, and up the hill-side, and but just escaped; for the
wind which immediately preceded the flood blew him down; and it was
clinging to the trunk of a tree that saved him, as his sister had been
saved just before.  As it was, his feet were wet.  Oliver panted and
trembled like his sister, but he was safe.

Every one was safe.  Ailwin appeared at an upper window, exhibiting
little George.  Mr Linacre stood, with folded arms, in the doorway of
his mill; and his wife was (he was thankful to remember) on the side of
a high hill, far away.  The children and their father knew, while the
flood was roaring between them, what all were thinking of; and at the
same moment, the miller and his boy waved, the one his hat, and the
other a green bough, high and joyously over their heads.  Little George
saw this from the window, and clapped his hands, and jumped, as Ailwin
held him on the window-sill.

"Look at Geordie!" cried Mildred.  "Do look at him!  Don't you think you
hear him now?"

This happy mood could not last very long, however, as the waters,
instead of going down, were evidently rising every moment.  From the
first, the flood had been too deep and rapid to allow of the miller
crossing from his mill to his house.  He was a poor swimmer; and no
swimmer, he thought, could have avoided being carried away into the wide
marsh, where there was no help.  Then, instead of the stream slackening,
it rushed more furiously as it rose,--rose first over the wall of the
yard, and up to the fourth--fifth--sixth step of the mill-ladder, and
then almost into the branches of the apple-trees in the garden.

"I hope you will not mind being hungry, Mildred," said her brother,
after a time of silence.  "We are not likely to have any dinner to-day,
I think."

"I don't mind that, very much," said Mildred, "but how do you think we
are to get away, with this great river between us and home?"

"We shall see what father does," said Oliver.  "He is further off still,
on the other side."

"But what is all this water?  When will it go away?"

"I am afraid the embankments have burst.  And yet the weather has been
fine enough lately.  Perhaps the sluices are broken up."

Seeing that Mildred did not understand the more for what he said, he
explained--

"You know, all these Levels were watery grounds once; more wet than the
carr yonder.  Well,--great clay banks were made to keep out the Humber
waters, over there, to the north-east, and on the west and north-west
yonder, to keep two or three rivers there from overflowing the land.
Then several canals and ditches were cut, to drain the land; and there
are great gates put up, here and there, to let the waters in and out, as
they are wanted.  I am afraid those gates are gone, or the clay banks
broken down, so that the sea and the rivers are pouring in all the water
they have."

"But when will it be over?  Will it ever run off again?  Shall we ever
get home again?"

"I do not know anything about it.  We must wait, and watch what father
will do.  See!  What is this coming?"

"A dead horse!" exclaimed Mildred.  "Drowned, I suppose.  Don't you
think so, Oliver?"

"Drowned, of course.--Do you know, Mildred," he continued, after a
silence, during which he was looking towards the sheds in the yard,
while his sister's eyes were following the body of the horse as it was
swept along, now whirled round in an eddy, and now going clear over the
hedge into the carr,--"do you know, Mildred," said Oliver, "I think
father will be completely ruined by this flood."

"Do you?" said Mildred, who did not quite know what it was to be ruined.
"How?  Why?"

"Why, it was bad enough that so much gypsum was spoiled yesterday.  I am
afraid now the whole quarry will be spoiled.  And then I doubt whether
the harvest will not be ruined all through the Levels: and I am pretty
sure nothing will be growing in the garden when the waters are gone.
That was not our horse that went by; but our horse may be drowned, and
the cow, and the sow, and everything."

"Not the fowls," said Mildred.  "Look at them, all in a row on the top
of the cow-shed.  They will not be drowned, at any rate."

"But then they may be starved.  O dear!" he continued, with a start of
recollection, "I wonder whether Ailwin has thought of moving the meal
and the grain up-stairs.  It will be all rotted and spoiled if the water
runs through it."

He shouted, and made signs to Ailwin, with all his might; but in vain.
She could not hear a word he said, or make anything of his signs.  He
was vexed, and said Ailwin was always stupid.

"So she is," replied Mildred; "but it does not signify now.  Look how
the water is pouring out of the parlour-window.  The meal and grain must
have been wet through long ago.  Is not that a pretty waterfall?  A
waterfall from our parlour-window, down upon the tulip-bed!  How very
odd!"

"If one could think how to feed these poor animals," said Oliver,--"and
the fowls!  If there was anything here that one could get for them!  One
might cut a little grass for the cow;--but there is nothing else."

"Only the leaves of the trees, and a few blackberries, when they are
ripe," said Mildred, looking round her, "and flowers,--wild-flowers, and
a few that mother planted."

"The bees!" cried Oliver.  "Let us save them.  They can feed themselves.
We will save the bees."

"Why, you don't think they are drowned?" said Mildred.

The bees were not drowned; but they were in more danger of it than
Mildred supposed.  Their little shed was placed on the side of the
Red-hill, so as to overlook the flowery garden.  The waters stood among
the posts of this shed; and the hives themselves shook with every wave
that rolled along.

"You cannot do it, Oliver," cried Mildred, as her brother crept down the
<DW72> to the back of the shed.  "You can never get round, Oliver.  You
will slip in, Oliver!"

Oliver looked round and nodded, as there was no use in speaking in such
a noise.  He presently showed that he did not mean to go round to the
front of the shed.  That would never have done; for the flood had washed
away the soil there, and left nothing to stand upon.  He broke away the
boards at the back of the bee-shed, which were old and loosely fastened.
He was glad he had come; for the bees were bustling about in great
confusion and distress, evidently aware that something great was the
matter.  Oliver seized one of the hives, with the board it stood on, and
carried it, as steadily as he could, to a sunny part of the hill, where
he put it down on the grass.  He then went for another, asking Mildred
to come part of the way down to receive the second hive, and put it by
the first, as he saw there was not a moment to lose.  She did so; but
she trembled so much, that it was probable she would have let the hive
fall, if it had ever been in her hands.  It never was, however.  The
soil was now melting away in the water, where Oliver had stood firmly
but a few minutes before.  He had to take great care, and to change his
footing every instant; and it was not without slipping and sliding, and
wet feet, that he brought away the second hive.  Mildred saw how hot he
was, as he sat resting, with the hive, before climbing the bank, and
begged that he would not try any more.

"These poor bees!" exclaimed Oliver, beginning to move again, on the
thought of the bees being drowned.  But he had done all he could.  The
water boiled up between the shed and the bank, lifted the whole
structure, and swept it away.  Oliver hastened to put down the second
hive beside the first; and when he returned, saw that the posts had
sunk, the boards were floating away, and the remaining hive itself
sailing down the stream.

"How it rocks!" cried Mildred.  "I wish it would turn quite over, so
that the poor things might get out, and fly away."

"They never will," said Oliver.  "I wish I had thought of the bees a
little sooner.  It is very odd that you did not, Mildred."

"I don't know how to think of anything," said Mildred, dolefully; "it is
all so odd and so frightful!"

"Well, don't cry, if you can help it, dear," said her brother.  "We
shall see what father will do.  He won't cry;--I am sure of that."

Mildred laughed: for she never had seen her father cry.

"He was not far off crying yesterday, though," said Oliver, "when he saw
your poor hen lying dead.  He looked--but, O Mildred!  What can have
become of the Redfurns?  We have, been thinking all this while about the
bees; and we never once remembered the Redfurns.  Why, their tent was
scarcely bigger than our hives; and I am sure it could not stand a
minute against the flood."

While he spoke, Oliver was running to the part of the hill which
commanded the widest view of the carr, and Mildred was following at his
heels,--a good deal startled by the hares which leaped across her path.
There seemed to be more hares now on the hill than she had seen in all
her life before.  She could not ask about the hares, however, when she
saw the brown tent, or a piece of it, flapping about in the water, a
great way off, and sweeping along with the current.

"Hark!  What was that?  Did you hear?" said Oliver, turning very pale.

"I thought I heard a child crying a great way off," said Mildred,
trembling.

"It was not a child, dear.  It was a shriek,--a woman's shriek, I am
afraid.  I am afraid it is Nan Redfurn, somewhere in the carr.  O dear,
if they should all be drowned, and nobody there to help them!"

"No, no,--I don't believe it," said Mildred.  "They have got up
somewhere,--climbed up something,--that bank or something."

They heard nothing more, amidst the dash of the flood, and they fancied
they could see some figures moving on the ridge of the bank, far out
over the carr.  When they were tired of straining their eyes, they
looked about them, and saw, in a smoother piece of water near their
hill, a dog swimming, and seeming to labour very much.

"It has got something fastened to it," cried Mildred;--"something tied
round its neck."

"It is somebody swimming," replied Oliver.  "They will get safe here
now.  Cannot we help them?  I wish I had a rope!  A long switch may do.
I will get a long switch."

"Yes, cut a long switch," cried Mildred: and she pulled and tugged at a
long tough thorny bramble, not minding its pricking her fingers and
tearing her frock.  She could not help starting at the immense number of
large birds that flew out, and rabbits that ran away between her feet,
while she was about it; but she never left hold, and dragged the long
bramble down to the part of the hill that the dog seemed to be trying to
reach.  Oliver was already there, holding a slip of ash, such as he had
sometimes cut for a fishing-rod.

"It is Roger, I do believe; but I see nothing of the others," said he.
"Look at his head, as it bobs up and down.  Is it not Roger?"

"O dear!  I hope not!" cried Mildred, in a tone of despair.  "What shall
we do if he comes?"

"We must see that afterwards: we must save him first.  Now for it!"

As Oliver spoke, the dog ducked, and came up again without Roger,
swimming lightly to the bank, and leaping ashore with a bark.  Roger was
there, however,--very near, but they supposed, exhausted, for he seemed
to fall back, and sink, on catching hold of Oliver's switch, and by the
jerk twitched it out of the boy's hand.

"Try again!" shouted Oliver, as he laid Mildred's bramble along the
water.  "Don't let go, Mildred."

Mildred let the thorns run deep into her fingers without leaving her
hold.  Roger grasped the other end: and they pulled, without jerking,
and with all their strength, till he reached the bank, and they could
help him out with their hands.

"Oh, I am so glad you are safe, Roger!" said Oliver.

"You might have found something better than that thorny switch to throw
me," said Roger.  "My hands are all blood with the spikes."

"Look at hers!" cried Oliver, intending to show the state that his
sister's hands were in, for Roger's sake; but Mildred pulled away her
hands, and hid them behind her as she retreated, saying,--

"No, no.  Never mind that now."

Oliver saw how drenched the poor boy looked, and forgave whatever he
might say.  He asked Mildred to go back to the place where they had been
standing, opposite the house; and he would come to her there presently.
He then begged Roger to slip off his coat and trousers, that they might
wring the wet out of them.  He thought they would soon dry in the sun.
But Roger pushed him away with his shoulder, and said he knew what he
wanted;--he wanted to see what he had got about him.  He would knock
anybody down who touched his pockets.  It was plain that Roger did not
choose to be helped in any way; so Oliver soon ran off, and joined
Mildred, as he had promised.

"I do not like to leave him, all wet, and so tired that I could knock
him over with my little finger," exclaimed Oliver.  "But he won't trust
me about any thing."

"There is father again!  Tell him," cried Mildred.

Both children shouted that Roger was here, and pointed behind them; but
it was plain that their father could not make out a word they said,
though they had never called out so loud in their lives.  Roger heard
them, however, as they judged by seeing him skulking among the trees
behind, watching what use they were making of his name.

The children thought their father was growing very anxious.  He still
waved his hat to them, now and then, when he looked their way; but they
saw him gazing abroad, as if surprised that the rush of waters did not
abate.  They observed him glance often round the sky, as if for signs of
wind; and they longed to know whether he thought a wind would do good or
harm.  They saw him bring out, for the third time, a rope which he had
seemed to think too short to be of any use; and this appeared to be the
case, now as at first.  Then he stooped down, as if to make a mark on
the side of the white door-post (for the water had by this time quite
hidden the steps); and Oliver thought this was to make out, for certain,
whether the flood was regularly rising or not.  They could not imagine
why he examined so closely as they saw him do the door lintel, and the
window-frame.  It did not occur to them, as it did to him, that the mill
might break down under the force of the current.

At last it was clear that he saw Roger; and from that moment, he
scarcely took his eyes from his children.  Oliver put his arm round
Mildred's neck, and said in her ear,--

"I know what father is watching us for.  He is afraid that Stephen is
here too, and no one to take care of us;--not even Ailwin."

"Perhaps Stephen is here,--in the wood," cried Mildred, in terror.  "I
wish this water would make haste and run away, and let us get home."

"It cannot run faster than it does.  Look how the waves dash along!
That is the worst of it:--it shows what a quantity there is, where this
came from.  But I don't believe Stephen is here.  I have a good mind to
ask Roger, and make him tell me."

"No, don't, Oliver!  Stephen may be drowned.  Do not put him in mind."

"Why, you see he does not care for anything.  He is teasing some live
thing at this minute,--there, on the ground."

Oliver himself forgot everything but the live animals before his eyes,
when he saw how many there were under the trees.  The grass was swarming
with mice, moles, and small snakes; while rabbits cocked up their little
white tails, in all directions, and partridges flew out of every bush,
and hares started from every hollow that the boy looked into.

"All soaked out of their holes;--don't know what to do with themselves;--
fine sport for those that have a mind to it," said Roger, as he lay on
the ground, pulling back a little mouse by its long tail, as often as it
tried to run away.

"You have no mind for sport to-day, I suppose, Roger.  I should not
think anybody has."

"I don't know;--I'm rarely hungry," said the boy.

"So were we; but we forgot it again.  Father is in the mill there..."

"You need not tell me that.  Don't I see him?"

"But we think he is looking out for Stephen."

"He won't find him," said Roger, in a very low voice; so low that Oliver
was not sure what he said.

"He is not here on the hill, then, Roger?"

"On the hill,--no!  I don't know where he is, nor the woman either.  I
suppose they are drowned, as I was, nearly.  If they did not swim as I
did, they must be drowned: and they could hardly do that, as I had the
dog."

The children looked at each other; and their looks told that they
thought Roger was shocked and sorry, though he tried not to appear so.

"There might have been a boat, perhaps, out on the carr.  Don't you
think the country-people in the hills would get out boats when they saw
the flood spreading?"

"Boats, no!  The hill-people have not above three boats among them all.
There are about three near the ponds; and they are like nut-shells.  How
should any boat live in such a flood as that?  Why, that flood would
sweep a ship out to sea in a minute.  You need not think about boats, I
can tell you."

"But won't anybody send a boat for us?" inquired Mildred, who had drawn
near to listen.  "If they don't send a boat, and the flood goes on, what
are we to do?  We can't live here, with nothing to eat, and no beds, and
no shelter, if it should rain."

"Are you now beginning to cry about that?  Are you now beginning to find
that out, after all this time?" said Roger, contemptuously.

"I thought we should get away," sobbed the little girl.  "I thought a
boat or something would come."

"A pretty silly thing you must be!" exclaimed Roger.

"If she is silly, I am silly too," declared Oliver.  "I am not sure that
it is silly to look for a boat.  There are plenty out on the coast
there."

"They are all dashed to pieces long ago," decided Roger.  "And they that
let in the flood will take good care you don't get out of it,--you, and
your outlanders.  It is all along of you that I am in this scrape.  But
it was shameful of them not to give us notice;--it was too bad to catch
us in the same trap with you.  If uncle is drowned, and I ever get out
alive, I will be revenged on them."

Mildred stopped crying, as well as she could, to listen; but she felt
like Oliver when he said,--

"I don't know a word of what you mean."

"I dare say not.  You foreigners never know anything like other people."

"But won't you tell us?  Who made this flood?"

"To be sure, you weren't meant to know this.  It would not have done to
show you the way out of the trap.  Why--the Parliament Committee at
Lincoln ordered the Snow-sewer sluice to be pulled up to-day, to drown
the king's lands, and get rid of his tenants.  It will be as good as a
battle gained to them."

The children were aghast at the wickedness of this deed.  They would not
believe it.  It would have been tyrannical and cruel to have obliged the
settlers, who were not interested in a quarrel between the king of
England and his people, to enlist, and be shot down in war.  They would
have complained of this as tyrannical and cruel.  But when they were
living in peace and quiet on their farms, paying their rents, and
inclined to show good-will to everybody, to pull up the flood-gates, and
let in the sea and the rivers to drown them because they lived in the
king's lands, was a cruelty too dreadful to be believed.  Oliver and
Mildred did not believe it.  They were sure their father would not
believe it; and that their mother, if ever she should return to her home
and family, would bring a very different account--that the whole
misfortune would turn out to be accidental.  So they felt assured: but
the fact was as Roger had said.  The Snow-sewer sluice had been pulled
up, by the orders of the Committee of the Parliament, then sitting at
Lincoln: and it was done to destroy the king's new lands, and deprive
him of the support of his tenants.  The jealous country-people round
hoped also that it would prevent foreigners from coming to live in
England, however much they might want such a refuge.

Some of the sufferers knew how their misfortune happened.  Others might
be thankful that they did not; for the thought of the malice of their
enemies must have been more bitter than the fear of ruin and death.



CHAPTER FOUR.

A HUNGRY DAY.

"We shall see what father does," was still the consolation with which
Oliver kept down his sister's fears.  He had such confidence in his
father's knowing what was best to be done on all occasions, that he felt
they had only to watch him, and imitate whatever he might attempt.  They
remained quiet on the island now, hungry and tired as they were, because
he remained in the mill, and seemed to expect the water to subside.  The
most fearful thought was what they were to do after dark, if they should
not get home before that.  They supposed, at last, that their father was
thinking of this too; for he began to move about, when the sun was near
setting, more than he had done all the afternoon.

They saw him go carefully down into the stream, and proceed cautiously
for some way--till the water was up to his chin.  Then he was buffeted
about so terribly that Mildred could not bear to look.  Both Oliver and
Roger were sure, by what he ventured, and by the way he pulled himself
back at last to the steps, that he had tied himself by the rope they had
seen him measure.  It was certainly too short for any good purpose; for
he had to go back, having only wetted himself to the skin.  They saw
this by the yellow light from the west which shone upon the water.  In a
few minutes they could distinguish him no longer, though the mill stood
up black against the sky, and in the midst of the gleaming flood.

"Father will be wet, and so cold all night!" said Mildred, crying.

"If I could only swim," exclaimed Oliver, "I would get over to him
somehow, and carry a rope from the house.  I am sure there must be a
rope long enough somewhere about the yard.  If I could only swim, I
would get to him."

"That you wouldn't," said Roger.  "Your father can swim; and why does
not he?  Because nobody could swim across that stream.  It is a torrent.
It would carry any stout man out over the carr; and you would be no
better than a twig in the middle of it."

"I am afraid now this torrent will not slacken," said Oliver,
thoughtfully.  "I am afraid there is some hollow near which will keep up
the current."

"What do you mean by that?"

"They say in Holland, where they have floods sometimes, that when water
flows into a hollow, it gets out in a current, and keeps it up for some
way.  Oh!  The quarry!" he cried, with sudden recollection.  "Mildred,
let us go, and look what is doing on that side before it is dark."

They ran round the hill; and there they saw indeed that the flood was
tumbling in the quarry, like water boiling in a pot.  When it rushed
out, it carried white earth with it, which made a long streak in the
flood, and explained how it was that the stream between the house and
the mill was whiter and more muddy than that between their hill and the
house.  At once it occurred to Roger that the stream between the hill
and the house was probably less rapid than the other; and he said so.
Oliver ran back; and so did Mildred, pleased at the bare idea of getting
to the house.

Once more arrived opposite the house, they saw a strange sight.  The
mill no longer stood in its right place.  It had moved a good way down
towards the carr.  Not only that, but it was still moving.  It was
sailing away like a ship.  After the first exclamation, even Roger stood
as still as death to watch it.  He neither moved nor spoke till the mill
was out of sight in the dusk.  When Mildred burst into a loud cry, and
Oliver threw himself down, hiding his face on the ground, Roger spoke
again.

"Be quiet--you must," he said, decidedly, to the little girl.  "We must
bestir ourselves now, instead of stopping to see what other folks will
do."

"Oh, father!  Father will be drowned!" cried they.

"You don't know that.  If he drifts out to the Humber, which is likely,
by the way he is going, some ship may pick him up--or he may light upon
some high ground.  We can't settle that now, however; and the clear
thing is that he wouldn't wish us to starve, whether he drowns or not.
Come, get up, lad!" said he, stirring Oliver with his foot.

"Don't lie there, Oliver; do get up!" begged Mildred.

Oliver rose, and did all that Roger bade him.

"You say there is a long rope somewhere about the house," said Roger.
"Where is it?"

"There is one in the cow-shed, I know."

"And if I cannot get there, is there one in the house?"

"In the lumber-room," said Mildred.  "The spare bed is tied round and
round with a long rope--I don't know how long."

"I wish we had set about it an hour ago," muttered Roger, "instead of
waiting for dark.  A pretty set of fools we have been to lose the
daylight!  I say, lad, can you think of anyway of making a fire?  Here
are sticks enough, if one could set them alight."

"To cook a supper?" asked Mildred.

"No; I mean to sup within doors; only we must do some work first."

Oliver had a steel knife; but it was too dark to look for a flint, if
any other plan than a fire would do.

"Well, don't plague any more about a fire," said Roger, "but listen to
me.  Can you climb a tree?  I'll be bound you can't: and now you'll die
if you can't."

"I can," said Oliver; "but what is Mildred to do?"

"We'll see that afterwards.  Which of these trees stands nearest to the
nearest of yon upper windows?"

Oliver and Mildred pointed out a young ash, which now quite bent over
the water.

"That is not strong enough," said Roger, shaking the tree, and finding
it loosened at the roots.  "Show me a stouter one."

A well-grown beech was the next nearest.  Roger pulled Oliver by the
arm, and made him stand directly under the tree, with his sister beside
him.  He desired them not to move from where they were, and to give a
loud halloo together, or a shriek (or anything that might be heard
furthest)--about once in a minute for an hour to come, unless they
should hear a rope fall into the tree, or anywhere near them.  They were
to watch for this rope, and use all their endeavours to catch it.  There
would be a weight at the end, which would make it easier to catch.
Oliver must tie this rope to the trunk of the tree, stretching it tight,
with all his strength, and then tying it so securely that no weight
would unfasten it.

"Mind you that," said Roger.  "If you don't, you will be drowned, that's
all.  Do as I tell you, and you'll see what you will see."

Roger then whistled for his dog, snatched Oliver's black ribbon from
about his neck, and fastened it round the dog's neck, to hold by.  He
then showed the dog the house, and forced him into the water, himself
following, till the children could no longer see what became of them.

"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
flour 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 <DW72> 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 summer 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 them, 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.

When Ailwin stopped her loud singing, for a moment, while considering in
which corner she should set down her stew-pan, she heard a gentle sob.
Looking round, she saw Mildred's face covered with tears.

"What's the matter now, dear?" said she.  "Is the baby worse?  No,--he
don't seem worse to me."

"I don't know, I'm sure.  But, Ailwin, I am so tired, I don't know what
to do; and I cannot bear to hear him cry so.  He has been crying in this
way all to-day; and it is the longest day I ever knew."

"Well, I'm sure I wish we could think of anything that would quiet him.
If we had only his go-cart, now, or his wooden lamb, with the white wool
upon it, that he is so fond of ...  But they are under water below."

"But if you could only take him for a little while, Ailwin, I should be
so glad!  I would wash up all your dishes for you."

"Take him!  Oh, that's what you are at!  To be sure I will; and I might
have thought of that before,--only I had my pans and things to put away.
I'll wash my hands now directly, and take him:--only, there is not much
use in washing one's hands: this foul damp smell seems to stick to
everything one touches.  It is that boy's doing, depend upon it.  He is
at the bottom of all mischief.--Ay, Mildred, you need not object to what
I say.  After what I saw of him yesterday morning, with all that plague
of animals about him on the stairs, you will never persuade me that he
has not some league with bad creatures, a good way off.  I don't half
like Oliver's being with him on the raft, in the stream there.  That
raft was wonderfully ready made for two slips of boys."

"They had the planks ready to their hands," said Mildred, trembling;
"and leather harness and ropes to tie it with.  I think they might to do
it as they said.  What harm do you suppose will happen, Ailwin?  I am
sure Oliver would do nothing wrong, about making the raft, or anything
else.--O dear!  I wish George would not cry so!"

"Here, give him to me," said Ailwin, who had now washed her hands, and
taken off her cooking apron.  "There, go you and finish the dishes, and
then to play,--there's a dear!  And don't think about George, or about
Roger, and the raft, or anything that will vex you,--there's a dear!"

Ailwin gave Mildred a smacking kiss, as she received little George from
her; and, though Mildred could not, as she was bid, put away all vexing
thoughts, she was cheered by Ailwin's good-will.

She had soon done washing the few plates they had used, though she did
the washing with the greatest care, because it was her mother's best
china, brought from Holland, and kept in the up-stairs cupboard,--ready,
as it now seemed, to serve the present party, who must otherwise have
gone without plates and cups, their common sets being all under water,--
broken to pieces, no doubt, by this time.--George was already quieter
than he had been all day; so that Mildred felt the less scruple about
going out to amuse herself,--or rather, to watch her brother; for she
hardly dared to take any pleasure in the raft, after what Ailwin had
said; though she kept repeating to herself that it was all nonsense,
such as Ailwin often talked; such as Mrs Linacre said her children must
neither believe nor laugh at.

Mildred went at once to the top of the staircase, which stood up firm,
though the building had fallen away on almost every side of it.  It was
rather a giddy affair at first, sitting on the top stair of a spiral
staircase of which part of the walls were gone, while the bare rafters
of the roof let the water be seen through them.  Mildred soon grew
accustomed to her place, however, and fixed her eyes on the raft with
which the boys were plying in the stream.  She supposed they had caught
a hay-cock; for the cow was eating, very industriously,--no longer on
the dunghill, but on a slip of ground which had been left dry between it
and the stable.  The cow had company to share her good cheer: whether
invited or uninvited, there was no saying.  A strange pony was there;
and a sheep, and a well-grown calf.  These animals all pressed upon one
another on the narrow space of ground, thrusting their heads over or
under one another's necks, to snatch the hay.

"How hungry they are!" thought Mildred, "and how they tease one
another!"  She then remembered having read of men starving in a boat at
sea, who became as selfish as these animals in snatching from one
another their last remaining morsels of food.  She hoped that she and
Oliver should not be starved, at last, in the middle of this flood: but
if they were, she did not believe that Oliver and she could ever snatch
food from each other, or help themselves before Geordie, whatever Roger
might do, or even Ailwin.  Ailwin was very kind and good-tempered; but
then she was apt to be so very hungry!  However, there was no occasion
to think of want of food yet.  The meal which had been wetted, round the
sides and under the lid of the chest, served well to feed the fowls; and
they seemed to find something worth picking up in the mud and slime that
the waters had left behind as they sank.  The poor sow had farrowed too.
She and her little pigs were found almost dead with hunger and wet: but
the meal-chest had come just in time to save them.  Ailwin had said it
was worth while to spare them some of the meal; for the little pigs, if
their mother was well fed, would give them many a good dinner.  There
was no occasion to fear want of food at present.

The boys were on their raft in the middle of the stream, working away
with their broad paddles, evidently wishing to catch something which was
floating down.  Mildred could see only a small tree bobbing about,
sometimes showing its roots above water, and sometimes its leafy
branches.  What could they want with a young tree, so well off as they
were for drier fire-wood than it would make?  They were determined to
have it, it was clear; for Roger threw down his paddle as they neared
the tree, caught up a long rope, and gave it a cast towards the
branching top as the rope went through the air, Mildred saw that it had
a noose at the end.  The noose caught:--the tree gave a topple in the
water, when it found itself stopped in its course with a jerk; and the
boys set up a shout as they pulled for the house, hauling in their prize
after them.

Mildred ran down the stairs as far as she dared,--almost to the very
brink of the water.  There she was near enough to see and hear what was
doing.  The tree was an apple-tree; and though the ripest apples were
gone, a good many were left, which would be a treat when cooked.  The
boys saw her watching them, and Roger said it was not fair that she
should stand idle while they were working like horses:--why should not
she gather the apples before they were all knocked off, instead of
keeping other people out of the stream to do such girls' work?  Oliver
said she had been as useful as anybody all day; and she should do as she
liked now.  He called out to Mildred; and asked her whether she should
like to gather the apples off the tree, while they went to see what else
they could find.  Mildred replied that she should like it very much, if
they could bring in the tree to the place where she was.  Ailwin would
find something for her to put the apples in.

Neither the raft nor the tree, however, could be got through the breach
in the wall.  Oliver fetched the tub, which had been discarded since the
raft had been thought of.  He rowed himself to the staircase in this
tub, and asked Mildred if she was afraid just to cross those few yards
to the wall.  He would find her a nice seat on the wall, where she could
sit plucking the apples, and seeing all they did on the raft.  He would
be sure to come, for her, as soon as she should make a signal for him.
Meantime, the tub would hold the apples.

Mildred had a great fancy for sharing the boys' adventures; and though
the tub looked a small, unsteady boat, she ventured to slide down into
it, and sit in it, while her brother rowed her over to the broken wall.
She was so silent that Oliver thought she was frightened; but she was
considering whether or not to tell him of Ailwin's fears of his being on
the raft with Roger.  Before she had decided, they had come within
hearing of Roger, and it was too late.

After finding a steady broad stone in the wall for her to sit on, Oliver
chose to stay a little while, to cut and break off from the trunk the
branches that had the most fruit on them.  This would make Mildred's
work much easier.  Oliver also chose, in spite of all Roger could say,
to leave her one of their paddles.  He considered (though he did not say
it) that some accident might possibly happen to the raft, to prevent
their returning for her: and he declared that Mildred should have an oar
to row herself in with, if she should have a mind to join Ailwin, at any
moment, instead of waiting where she was.  So having moored the tub
inside the house wall, and the apple-tree outside, and established
Mildred on a good seat between, the boys pushed off again.

Mildred found that she had undertaken a wet and dirty task.  The
branches of the apple-tree were dripping, and the fruit covered with
slime; but these are things which must not be minded in times of flood.
So she went on, often looking away, however, to wonder what things were
which were swept past her, and to watch the proceedings of the boys.
After a while, she became so bold as to consider what a curious thing it
would be if she, without any raft, should pick up some article as
valuable as any that had swum the stream.  This thought was put into her
head by seeing something occasionally flap out upon the surface of the
muddy water, as if it were spread out below.  It looked to her like the
tail of a coat, or the skirt of a petticoat.  She was just about to fish
it up with her paddle, when it occurred to her that it might be the
clothing of a drowned person.  She shrank back at the thought, and in
the first terror of having a dead body so near her, called Oliver's
name.  He did not hear; and she would not repeat the call when she saw
how busy he was.  She tried not to think of this piece of cloth; but it
came up perpetually before her eyes, flap, flapping, till she felt that
it would be best to satisfy herself at once, as to what it was.

She poked her paddle underneath the flap, and found that it was caught
and held down by something heavy.  She tugged hard at it, and raised
some more blue cloth.  She did not believe there was a body now; and she
laid hold of the cloth and drew it in.  It was heavy in itself, and made
more so by the wet, so that the little girl had to set her foot against
a stone in the wall, and employ all her strength, before she could land
the cloth, yard after yard, upon the wall.  It was a piece of home-spun,
probably laid out on the grass of some field in the Levels, after
dyeing, and so carried away.  When Mildred had pulled in a vast
quantity, there was some resistance;--the rest would not come.  Perhaps
something heavy had lodged upon it, and kept it down.  Again she used
her paddle, setting her feet against one stone, and pressing her back
against another, to give her more power.  In the midst of the effort,
the stone behind her gave way.  It was her paddle now, resting against
some support under water, which saved her from popping into the water
with the great stone.  As it was, she swayed upon her seat, and was very
nearly gone, while the heavy stone slid in, and raised a splash which
wetted her from head to foot, and left her trembling in every limb.  She
had fancied, once or twice before, that the wall shook under her: she
was now persuaded that it was all shaking, and would soon be carried
quite away.  She screamed out to Oliver to come and save her.  She must
have called very loud; for Ailwin, with George in her arms, was out on
the staircase in a moment.

There was a scuffle on the raft.  It seemed as if Oliver was paddling
with one hand, and keeping off Roger with the other.  It was terrible to
see them,--it was so like fighting, in a most dangerous place.  There
was a splash.  Mildred's eyes grew dim in a moment, and she could see
nothing: but she heard Ailwin's voice,--very joyful,--calling out to
Oliver,--

"Well done, Oliver!  Well rid of him!  Pull away from him, Oliver!  He
is full able to take care of himself, depend upon it.  He was never made
to be drowned.  Come and help Mildred, there's a dear!  Never mind
Roger."

Mildred soon saw the raft approaching her, with Oliver alone upon it.

"Oh!  Oliver, where is he?  What have you done?" cried Mildred, as her
brother arrived at the wall.

Oliver was very hot, and his lips quivered as he answered,--

"I don't know what I have done.  I could not help it.  He wanted me not
to come to you when you screamed.  He wanted to catch the chest instead.
I tripped him up--off into the water.  He can swim.  But there is the
tub--give me hold of the rope--quick!  I will send it out into the
stream.  He may meet it."

Down went all the gathered apples into the water, within the wall, and
off went the tub outside.  Oliver fastened the line round a heavy stone
in the wall.

"I wish I had never screamed!" exclaimed Mildred.

"I am sure I wish so too.  You _must_ leave off screaming so, Mildred.
I am sure I thought you were in the water, in the middle of all that
splash, or I should not have been in such a hurry.  If Roger should be
drowned, it will be all your doing, for screaming so."

Mildred did not scream now; but she cried very bitterly.  It was soon
seen, however, that Roger was safe.  He was swimming in the still water
on the opposite side, and presently landed beside the pony and cow.  He
left off wringing the wet out of his hair and clothes, to shake both his
fists at Oliver in a threatening way.

"Oh, look at him!  He will kill you!" cried Mildred.  "I never will
scream again."

"Never mind, as long as he is safe," said Oliver.  "I don't care for his
shaking his fists.  It was my business to save you, before caring about
him, or all the chests in the Levels.  Never mind now, dear.  You wont
scream again without occasion, I know.  What made you do so?  You can't
think what a shriek it was.  It went through my head."

"Part of the wall fell; and the whole of it shakes so, I am sure it will
all be down presently.  I wish we were at home.  But what shall we ever
do about Roger?  He will kill you, if you go near him: and he can't stay
there."

"Leave Roger to me," said Oliver, feeling secretly some of his sister's
fear of the consequences of what had just passed.  He stepped on the
wall, and was convinced that it was shaking,--almost rocking.  He
declared that it was quite unsafe, and that he must look to the
remaining walls before they slept another night in the building.
Mildred must get upon the raft immediately.  What was that heap of blue
cloth?

Mildred explained, and the cloth was declared too valuable to be left
behind.  Two pairs of hands availed to pull up the end which stuck under
water, and then the children found themselves in possession of a whole
piece of home-spun.

"May we use it?  We did not make it, or buy it," said Mildred.

"I thought of that too," replied her brother.  "We will see about that.
It is our business to save it, at any rate; so help me with it.  How
heavy it is with the water!"

They pulled a dozen apples, and rowed away home with their prize.

Ailwin said, as she met them on the stairs, that she was glad enough to
see them home again; and more especially without Roger.

"Roger must be fetched, however," said Oliver, "and the sooner the
better."

"Oh not yet!" pleaded Mildred.  "He is so angry!"

"That is the very thing," said Oliver.  "I want to show him that I
tripped him over, not in anger, but because I could not help it.  He
will never believe but that it was malice, from beginning to end, if I
do not go for him directly."

"But he will thrash you.  You know he can.  He is ever so much stronger
than you; and he is in such a passion, I do not know what he may not
do."

"What can I do?" said Oliver.  "I can't leave him there, standing
dripping wet, with the cow and the pony."

"Would it be of any use if I were to go with you, and say it was all my
fault?" asked Mildred, trembling.

"No, no; you must not go."

"I would go, if there was no water between, and if Mildred would take
care of the baby," said Ailwin.

"Oh do,--do go!  You are so strong!" said both the children.

"Why, you see, I can't abide going on the water, any way, and never
could: and most of all without so much as a boat."

"But I will row you as carefully," said Oliver, "as safely as in any
boat.  You see how often we have crossed, and how easy it is.  You
cannot think what care I will take of you, if you will go."

"Then there's the coming back," objected Ailwin.  "If I am on board the
same raft with Roger, we shall all go to the bottom, that's certain!"

"How often have I been to the bottom?  And yet I have been on the raft
with Roger, ever since it was made."

"Well, and think how near Mildred was going to the bottom, only just
now.  I declare I thought we had seen the last of her."

"Roger had nothing to do with that, you know very well.  But I will tell
you how we can manage.  You can carry your pail over, and,--(never mind
its being so early)--you can be milking the cow while I bring Roger over
here; and I can come back for you.  That will do,--wont it?  Come,--
fetch your pail.  Depend upon it that is the best plan."

Mildred remembered, with great fear, that by this plan Roger would be
left with her and George while Oliver went to fetch Ailwin home: but she
did not say a word, feeling that she who had caused the mischief ought
not to object to Oliver's plan for getting out of the scrape.  She need
not have feared that Oliver would neglect her feelings.  Just before he
put off with Ailwin and her milk-pail, he said to his sister--

"I shall try to set Roger down somewhere, so that he cannot plague you
and George; but you had better bolt yourself into the room up-stairs
when you see us coming; and on no account open the door again till I bid
you."

Mildred promised, and then sat down with George asleep on her lap, to
watch the event.  She saw Ailwin make some odd gestures as she stood on
the raft, balancing herself as if she thought the boards would gape
under her feet.  Oliver paddled diligently, looking behind him oftener
and oftener, as he drew near the landing-place, as if to learn what
Roger meant to do when they came within his reach.

The moment the boys were within arm's length of each other, Roger sprang
furiously upon Oliver, and would have thrown him down in an instant, if
Oliver had not expected this, and been upon his guard.  Oliver managed
to jump ashore; and there the boys fought fiercely.  There could be no
doubt from the beginning which would be beaten,--Roger was so much the
taller and stronger of the two, and so much the less peaceable in all
his habits than Oliver: but yet Oliver made good fight for some time,
before he was knocked down completely.  Roger was just about to give his
fallen enemy a kick in the stomach, when Ailwin seized him, and said she
was not going to see her young master killed before her face, by boy or
devil, whichever Roger might be.  She tripped him up; and before Oliver
had risen, Roger lay sprawling, with Ailwin kneeling upon him to keep
him down.  Roger shouted out that they were two to one,--cowards, to
fight him two to one!

"I am as sorry for that as you can be," said Oliver, dashing away the
blood which streamed from his nose.  "I wish I were as old and as tall
as you: but I am not.  And this is no fighting for play, when it would
not signify if I was beaten every day for a week.  Here are Mildred and
the baby; I have to take care of them till we know what has become of my
father and mother: and if you try to prevent me, I will get Ailwin, or
anybody or thing I can, to help me, sooner than they shall be hurt.  If
father and mother ever come back to take care of Mildred, I will fight
you every day till I beat you, and let nobody interfere: but till then,
I will go to Mildred as often as she calls, if you drown for it, as I
showed you this morning."

Roger answered only by fresh kicks and struggles.  Ailwin said aloud
that she saw nothing for it but leaving him on this spit of land, to
starve on the dunghill.  There would be no taking him over to the house
in this temper.  Roger vowed he would drown all the little pigs, and
hough the cow.  He had done such a thing before; and he would do it
again; so that they should not have a drop more milk for George.

"That will never do," said Oliver.  "Ailwin, do you think we could get
him over to the Red-hill?  He would have plenty to eat there, and might
do as he pleased, and be out of our way and the cow's.  I could carry
him his dog."

Ailwin asked Oliver to bring her the cord from off the raft, and they
two could tie up the boy from doing mischief.  Oliver brought the cord,
but he could not bear to think of using it so.

"Come, now, Roger," said he, "you picked this quarrel; and you may get
out of it in a moment.  We don't want to quarrel at such a time as this.
Never mind what has happened.  Only say you wont meddle between me and
the others while the flood lasts; and you shall help me to row home, and
I will thank you.  After all, we can fight it out some other day, if you
like."

More kicks from Roger.  No other answer.  So Oliver and Ailwin tied his
arms and legs with the cord; and then Ailwin proceeded to milk the cow,
and Oliver, after washing his face, to give the pony some more hay, and
see how the little pigs went on.  The animals were all drooping, and
especially the cow.  Oliver wished to have given the pigs some of her
milk, as the poor sow seemed weak and ill; but the cow gave so very
little milk this afternoon, that there was none to spare.  Her legs
trembled as she stood to be milked; and she lay down again, as soon as
Ailwin had done.

"The poor thing ain't long for this world," said Ailwin.  "Depend upon
it that boy has bewitched her.  I don't believe she trembles in that way
when he is on the other side of the water."

"You will see that in the morning," said Oliver.  "Shall we take him on
the raft now?  I don't like to carry him tied so, for fear he should
throw himself about, and roll over into the water.  He would certainly
be drowned."

"Leave that to him, Oliver: and take my word for it, that boy was never
made to be drowned."

"You thought the same about Stephen, you know; and he is drowned, I am
afraid."

"Neither you nor I know that.  I will believe it when I see it," said
Ailwin with a wise look.

It was now Roger's mood to lie like one dead.  He did not move a muscle
when he was lifted, and laid on the raft.  Ailwin was so delighted to
see the boy she was so afraid of thus humbled, that she could not help
giving his face a splash and rub with the muddy water of the stream as
he lay.

"Ailwin, for shame!" cried Oliver.  "I will fight you next, if you do
so.  You know you durst not, if his hands were free."

"To be sure, Oliver, that is the very reason.  One must take one's
revenge while one can.  However, I wont notice him any more till you
do."

"Cannot you set down your pail, and help me to row?" asked Oliver.  He
was quite tired.  The raft was heavy now; his nose had not left off
bleeding, and his head ached sadly.  Three pulls from Ailwin brought
them nearer home than all Oliver's previous efforts.  He observed that
they must get round the house, if possible, and into the stream which
ran through the garden, so as to land Roger on the Red-hill.

There was not much difficulty in getting round, as everything like a
fence had long been swept away.  As they passed near the entrance-door
to the garden, they observed that the waters were still sinking.  They
stood now only half-way up the door-posts.  Oliver declared that when he
was a little less tired, he would go through the lower rooms in a tub,
and see whether he could pick up anything useful.  He feared, however,
that almost everything must have been swept off through the windows, in
the water-falls that Mildred had thought so pretty, the first day of the
flood.

"There is a chest!" exclaimed Oliver, pointing to a little creek in
which a stout chest had stuck.  "Roger, I do believe it is the very
chest that ... that we began our quarrel about.  Come, now, is not this
a sign that we ought to make it up?"

Roger would not appear to hear: so his companions made short work of it.
They pulled in for the shore of the Red-hill, and laid Roger on the
slimy bank:--for they saw no occasion to carry one so heavy and so sulky
up to the nice bed of grass which was spread at the top of the red
precipice that the waters had cut Oliver knew that there was a knife in
Roger's pocket.  He took it out, cut the cord which tied his wrists, and
threw the knife to a little distance, where Roger could easily reach it
in order to free his legs; but not in time to overtake them before they
should have put off again.

Roger made one catch at Oliver's leg, but missing it, lay again as if
dead; and Ailwin believed he had not yet stirred when the raft rounded
the house again, with the great chest in tow.

Mildred was delighted to see them back, and especially without Roger.
She thought Oliver's face looked very shocking, but Oliver would not say
a word about this, or anything else, till he had found Roger's dog, and
gone over in the basket, to set him ashore with his master.

"There!" said he, as he stepped in at the window when this was
accomplished, "we have done their business.  There they are, in their
desert island, as they were before.  Now we need not think any more
about them, but attend to our own affairs."

"Your face, Oliver!  Pray do--"

"Never mind my face, dear, if it does not frighten poor Geordie.  How is
poor Geordie?"

"I do not think he is any better.  I never saw him so fretful, and so
hot and ill.  And he cries so dreadfully!"



CHAPTER EIGHT.

NEW QUARTERS.

Ailwin presently made George's supper, with milk, a little thickened
with meal.  They were all about the child, watching how he would take
it, when a loud crack was heard.

"What is that?" cried Oliver.

"It is a crack," said Ailwin, "in the wall or somewhere.  I heard just
such a one while Mildred was gone out to play, after dinner."

"And there was another while you were away," said Mildred.  "Some
plaster fell that time:--look here!  In this corner.--What is the
matter, Oliver?  What makes you look so frightened?  What does it mean?"

"It means, I am afraid, that more of the house is coming down.  Look at
this great zigzag crack in the wall!--and how loose the plaster hangs in
that part of the ceiling!  I really think,--I am quite sure, we ought
not to stay here any longer."

"But where can we go?  What shall we do?"

"We must think about that, and lose no time.  I think this room will
fall very soon."

Mildred could not help crying, and saying that they could not settle
themselves, and rest at all.  She never saw anything like it.  They were
all so tired they did not know what to do; and now they should have to
work as hard as ever.  She never saw anything like it.

"No, dear, never," said her brother: "and thousands of people, far older
than you, never saw anything like this flood.  But you know, Mildred, we
must not die, if we can help it."

This reminded Mildred who it was that set them these heavy tasks,--that
bade them thus labour to preserve the lives He gave.  She was silent.
Oliver went on--

"If ever we meet father and mother again, we shall not mind our having
been ever so much tired now.  We shall like telling them all our plans
and doings, if it should please God that we should ever sit with them by
the fire-side."

"Or whenever we meet them in heaven, if they should not be alive now,"
said Mildred.

"Yes, dear; but we will talk over all that when we get to the
Red-hill:--we must not talk any more now, but set to work.  However, I
really think, Mildred, that father and mother are still alive somewhere.
I feel as if they were."

"But the Red-hill," said Mildred, "what do you mean about the Red-hill?
We are not going there, where Roger is,--are we?"

"We must, dear.  There is no other place.  Roger is very unkind: but
floods and falling houses are unkinder still.  Come, Ailwin, help me
with the raft.  We must carry away what we can before dark.  There will
be no house standing to-morrow morning, I am afraid."

"Sleep on the ground!" exclaimed Ailwin.  "Without a roof to cover us!
My poor grandfather little thought I should ever come to that."

"If you will move the beds, you need not sleep on the bare ground," said
Oliver.  "Now, Ailwin, don't you begin to cry.  Pray don't.  You are a
grown-up woman, and Mildred and I are only children.  You ought to take
care of us, instead of beginning to cry."

"That is pretty true," said Ailwin: "but I little thought ever to sleep
without a roof over my head."

"Come, come, there are the trees," said Oliver.  "They are something of
a roof, while the leaves are on."

"And there is all that cloth," said Mildred; "that immensely long piece
of cloth.  Would not that make a tent, somehow?"

"Capital!" cried Oliver.  "How well we shall be off with a cloth tent!
It seems as if that cloth was sent on purpose.  It is so spoiled
already, that we can hardly do it any harm.  And I am sure the person
that wove it would be very glad that it should cover our heads to-night.
I shall carry it and you across before anything else--this very minute.
I will run down and bring the raft round to the door below.  The water
is low enough now for you to get out that way.--Oh dear!  I wish I was
not so tired!  I can hardly move.  But I must forget all that; for it
will not do to stay here."

While he was gone, Mildred asked Ailwin whether she was very tired.

"Pretty much; but not so bad as he," replied Ailwin.

"Then do not you think you and I could fetch off a good many things,
while he watches Geordie on the grass?  If you thought you could row the
raft, I am sure I could carry a great many things down-stairs, and land
them on the hill."

Ailwin had no doubt she could row, in such a narrow and gentle stream as
now ran through the garden.

She made the trial first when Oliver was on board, and several other
times with Mildred, succeeding always very well.  Oliver was extremely
glad of this; for the bridge-basket had been used so much, and sometimes
for such heavy weights, that it was wearing out, and might break down at
any moment.  The bridge-rope, too, being the stoutest cord they had, was
very useful for tying the raft to the trunk of the beech, so that it
could not be carried away.  When once this rope was well fastened,
Oliver was content to rest himself on the grass beside Geordie, and let
the strong Ailwin and little Mildred work as they wished.  It surprised
him, well as he knew Ailwin, to see the loads she could carry, bringing
a good-sized mattress up the bank as easily as he could have carried a
pillow.  She wrung the wet out of the long piece of home-spun, and
spread it out in the sun, to dry as much as it could before dark, and
seemed to think no more of it than Mildred did of washing her doll's
petticoat.

Mildred took charge of the lighter articles that required care--her
mother's china, for one thing; for it was found that nothing made of
earthenware remained unbroken in the lower rooms.  There were some
pewter plates, which were now lodged under the beech, together with pots
and pans, knives and forks, and horn spoons.  There was no table light
enough to be moved, but a small one of deal, which Ailwin dragged out
from under water, with all its legs broken: but enough of it remained
entire to make it preferable to the bare ground for preparing their food
on, when once it should be dry.  There was a stool a-piece--not
forgetting one for Roger; and Mildred took care that Geordie should have
his own little chair.  Not even Ailwin could carry a chest of drawers:
but she carried down the separate drawers, with the clothes of the
family in them.  No one of the household had ever seen a carpet; but
there was matting on some of the floors.  Ailwin pulled up pieces of
this, to be some protection against the damp and insects of the ground.

"It is as wet as water now," said she; "but we must not quarrel with
anything to-day on that account; and matting will dry on the hill better
than at home.  If it turns out rotten, we must try and spare a piece of
the cloth from overhead, to lay underfoot: but George will feel it more
like home, if he has a bit of matting to trip his little foot against."

So down-stairs went a great bundle of wet matting.

"Will not that do for to-night?" asked Oliver, languidly, as he saw
Ailwin preparing to put off again, when the sun was just touching the
western hills.  "You know we have to put up the tent, and get something
to eat before we can go to sleep; and it has been such a long, long
day!"

"As you please," said Ailwin; "but you said the house would be down in
the night; and there are many things yet that we should be sorry to have
to do without."

"Never mind them:--let them go, I am sure we all want to be asleep more
than anything else."

"Sleep, indeed!  Do you suppose I shall sleep with that boy hid among
the trees?  Not I, you may rely upon it.  Those may that can: and I will
watch."

No one had yet mentioned Roger, though all felt that his presence was a
terrible drawback to the comfort of their establishment on the hill,
which might otherwise be, in fine weather, a tolerably pleasant one.  It
made Oliver indignant to think that a stout lad, whom they had wished to
make welcome to all they had, in their common adversity, should be
skulking in the wood as an enemy, instead of helping them in their
labours, under circumstances in which all should be friends.  This
thought made Oliver so angry that he did not choose to speak of Roger.
When Ailwin offered to seek him out, and do her best to tie his limbs
again, and carry him away to any place the children chose, Oliver begged
her to say no more about it; and observed that they had better forget
Roger altogether, if they could, unless he should come to make peace.

There was one, however, who could not for a moment forget who was the
cause of the late quarrel.  Mildred was very unhappy at the thought of
the mischief she had done by her shriek.  Not all her hard toil of this
evening could console her.  When the cloth had been spread over the
lower branches of a great ash, so as to shelter the party, in a careless
way, for this one night (when there was no time to make a proper tent),
and while Ailwin was heating something for supper, and Oliver dozing
with George on one of the beds, Mildred stole away, to consider whether
there was anything that she could do to cure Roger's anger.  It did her
good, at least, to sit down and think about it.  She sat down under a
tree, above where the bee-shed had stood.  The moon had just risen, and
was very bright, being near the full.  The clouds seemed to have come
down out of the sky, to rest upon the earth; for white vapours, looking
as soft as wreaths of snow, were hovering over the wide waste of waters.
Some of these were gently floating or curling, while others brooded
still, like large white birds over their hidden nests.  It seemed to
Mildred's eye, however, as if a clear path had been cut through these
mists, from the Red-hill to the moon on the horizon, and as if this path
had been strewed with quivering moonbeams.  She forgot, while gazing,
that she was looking out upon the carr,--upon muddy waters which covered
the ruins of many houses, and in which were hidden the bodies of drowned
animals, and perhaps of some people.  She looked upon the train of
trembling light, and felt not only how beautiful it was, but that He
whose hand kindled that mild heavenly lamp, and poured out its rays
before his children's eyes, would never forget and forsake them.  While
everything was made so beautiful as to seem ordered for the pleasure of
men, their lives and common comforts could not be overlooked.  So plain
did this now appear to Mildred, that she felt less and less anxious and
fearful; and, after a time, as if she was afraid of nothing at all, and
could never be afraid again.

She determined to go and seek Roger,--not with any wish like Ailwin's,
that he could be bound by force, and carried away, to be alone and
miserable,--but with a much happier hope and purpose.  She did not think
he would hurt her; but, if he did, she had rather that he should strike
her than that Oliver and he should fight, day after day, as Ailwin had
whispered to her they meant to do.  She did not believe he could come to
blows with Oliver again, after she had taken all the blame upon herself.
So she set forth to do so.

She went on quickly enough while she was upon the <DW72>, in the full
moonlight, and with the blaze of Ailwin's fire not far off on her right
hand.  But she felt the difference when she entered the shade of the
trees.  It was rather chilly there, and very silent.  There was only a
rustle in the grass and brambles about her feet, as if she disturbed
some small animals hidden there.  When she thought she was far enough
away from her party not to be heard by them, she began to call softly,
hoping that Roger might presently answer, so that she should not have to
go much further into the darkness.  But she heard nothing but her own
voice, as she called, "Roger!  Where are you, Roger?  I want to speak to
you."

Further and further on she went; and still there was no reply.  Though
she knew every inch of her way, she tripped several times over the roots
of the trees; and once she fell.  She saw the stars in the spaces of the
wood, as she looked up, and knew that she should soon come out upon the
grass again.  But when she did so, she found it almost as dark as in the
wood, though the moon shone on the waters afar.  She still went on
calling Roger--now a little louder, till she stumbled over something
which was not the root of a tree, for it was warm, and it growled.

"Bishop!" she exclaimed, in alarm; for next to Roger, she had always
been afraid of Roger's dog.

"Why don't you call him Spy?" said Roger's voice, from the ground just
before her.  "What business have you to call him by his wrong name?--how
is he ever to learn his name if people come calling him by the wrong
one?  Get away--will you?  I know what I'll do if you come here,
spoiling my dog."

"I will go back directly when I have said one thing.  It was all my
fault that you and Oliver quarrelled this morning.  I was frightened,
and screamed when I ought not; and it is my fault that you are not now
by our fire, getting your supper with us, in our tent. I am sure, I wish
you were there."

"Very fine," said Roger.  "He knows I thrashed him; and he does not want
any more of it.  But I'll thrash him as long as I live; I tell you
that."

"Oliver does not know about my coming--he is asleep in the tent,"
protested Mildred.  "Nobody knows of my coming.  I don't believe Oliver
would have let me come, if he had known it.  Only go and look yourself;
and you will see how he lies asleep on the grass.  We know you can beat
him in fighting, because you are so much bigger; and that is why I
cannot bear that he should fight.  It was all about me this time; and I
know he will never give up; and I don't know how long it will be before
he is big enough to thrash you."

"Long enough, I can tell you: so get away, and let me go to sleep; or
I'll thrash you too."

"How can you talk so, Roger, and keep your anger so, when we are all so
unhappy?  I did not wonder much before, when Ailwin had to help
Oliver...  That was enough to make you or anybody be angry.  But now,
when I come to tell you how sorry I am, and that I know, if I ask
Oliver, that he will be glad to forget everything, and that you should
come to supper with us, instead of lying here in the dark, with nothing
to eat, I do think you ought to forgive and forget; to forgive me, and
forget all about thrashing Oliver."

Roger made no answer.

"Good-bye, Roger," said Mildred.  "I am sorry that you choose to lie
here, hungry and cold, instead of..."

"What business have you in my island?" interrupted Roger, fiercely.
"How dared you settle upon my ground, to mock me with your fire and your
supper?  I'll have my fire and my supper too."

"I hope you will, if you will not come to ours.  We were obliged to
settle here--the house is all cracking, and falling to pieces.  We were
very sorry to come,--we were all so tired;--but we dared not stay in the
house."

Roger uttered an exclamation which showed that a new light had broken
upon him, as to the causes of their removal.

"Poor Geordie is so ill, we were most sorry to have to move him.  The
time will come, Roger, though you don't think so now, when you will be
vexed that while we cannot tell whether father and mother are alive or
dead, and whether George will live or die, you put the pain of quarrels
upon us too."

"Well, get you gone now!" said Roger, not immediately discovering that
she was some paces on her way home again before he said that much.

Mildred heard Ailwin calling her to supper, as she drew near the tent.
She did not say where she had been; but perhaps she was more on the
watch, in consequence of what had passed.  She soon saw that Roger was
sauntering under the trees; and indeed what she had said, and what he
now saw together, had altered Roger's mind.  He was hungry, and once
more tired of being alone and sulky.  He was thinking how comfortable
the fire and the steaming kettle looked, and considering how he should
make his approach, when Mildred jumped up, and came running to him.

"They don't know that I came to find you," said she.  "Oliver will think
it so kind of you to come and be friends!  He will be so pleased!  And
there is plenty of supper for everybody."

She ventured to put her hand in his, and lead him forwards into the
light.  She told Oliver that Roger was willing to forgive and forget;
and Oliver said that he was quite willing too.  Oliver set a stool for
Roger, and offered him his own basin of broth.  Ailwin held her
tongue;--which was the most that could be expected of her.

Roger did not quite know what to say and do, when he had finished his
supper, and fed Spy.  He swung his legs, as he sat upon his stool,
stared into the fire, and began to whistle.  Roger's shrillest whistle,
as it had been sometimes heard in the carr, was anything but agreeable:
but his low whistle, when he was not thinking about it, was soft and
sweet.  A gentle chuckle was soon heard from George, as he lay across
Mildred's knees.

"He likes it!  He likes such a whistle as that!" exclaimed Mildred.  Her
eyes said to Roger, "Do go on!"

Roger went on whistling, better and better,--more and more softly, he
drawing nearer, till he quite bent over the poor sick child, who, after
many signs of pleasure, dropped off into a sleep,--a quiet, sound sleep.

"Thank you!" said Oliver, heartily.  "Thank you, Roger!"

"You will do it again to-morrow, will not you, if he should be fretful?"
said Mildred.

Roger nodded.  Then he made the cloth drapery hang better over the
pillows on which the child was laid,--so as to keep off the dew
completely, he said.  Then he nodded again, when Oliver gave him a
blanket: and once more he nodded good night, before he rolled himself up
in it under a neighbouring tree.



CHAPTER NINE.

ONE PRISONER RELEASED.

In the morning, it appeared that it had been right to remove to the
Red-hill the night before.  Only some fragments of the roof of the house
remained.  Some beams and a quantity of rubbish had fallen into the room
where the party had lived since the flood came; and a heap of this
rubbish lay on the very spot where Mildred would have been sleeping if
they had stayed.  All saw and considered this with awe.  Roger himself
looked first at the little girl, and then at that part of the ruin, as
if imagining what it would have been for her to be lying there, and
wondering to see her standing here, alive and unhurt.

"Look how that wall stands out;" said Oliver.  "The faster the house
falls, the more haste we must make to save what we can."

"Oh!  Cannot you stay quietly to-day?" asked Mildred.  "I think we have
got all we really want; and this bustle and hurry and hard work every
day are so tiresome!  Cannot we keep still and rest to-day?"

"To-morrow, dear," replied her brother.  "To-morrow is Sunday!  And we
will try to rest.  But there is no knowing how long we may have to live
in this place, in the middle of the waters; and it is my duty to save
everything I can that can make George and you and the rest of us
comfortable when the colder weather comes on."

"I wonder what all the world is about, that nobody comes to see after
us," said Mildred, sighing.

"Out of sight, out of mind, Mildred," said Ailwin.  "That is the way,
all the world over."

"I am sure it is not," said Oliver.  "Mildred and I say as little as we
can about father and mother, but don't you imagine such a thing as that
they are out of our minds.  I know Mildred never shuts her eyes, but she
sees the mill floating away, as it did that evening, and father
standing..."

He could not go on about that.  Presently he said, "When the flood came,
I suppose, there were no boats to be had.  It would take the first day
to bring them from a distance, and get them afloat.  Then the people
would look round (as they ought to do) to see where they could do most
good.  Nobody who looked through a glass this way, since the day before
yesterday, and saw those rafters sticking up in the air,--the house in
ruins as it is,--would suppose that any one could be left alive here.
From a distance, they can hardly fancy that even any little mouse could
help being either drowned or starved.  This will be about the last spot
in the Levels that any boat will come to.--You see, Mildred, our
Red-hill, though it is everything to us, is but a speck compared with
the grounds that have stood above water since the waters began to sink.
We had better not think of anything but living on as we can, unless it
should please God that we should die."

Roger did not want to hear anything more of this kind; so he went to
where George was lying, and began to whistle softly to him.  The child
was so altered that his own mother would hardly have known him: but he
smiled when he heard the whistle; and the smile was his own.  He put up
his hand and patted Roger's face, and even pulled his hair with a good
stout pull.  Roger had been used to nurse his dog, though not little
children.  He now took George into his arms, and laid him comfortably
across his knees, while he whistled till the little fellow looked full
in his face, and puckered up his poor white lips, as if he would whistle
too.  This made Roger laugh aloud; and then George laughed.  Ailwin
heard them, and peeped into the corner of the tent where they were.  She
flew to Oliver, to tell him that Roger was at his tricks worse than
ever,--he was bewitching the baby.  She was angry at Oliver for telling
his sister, when he had looked in too, that they might have been very
glad any of them, to bewitch poor baby in this manner, when he was
crying so sadly all yesterday.  Mildred, for her part, ran to thank
Roger, and say how glad she should be to be able to whistle as he could.

"How should you?" said Roger,--"you who never had a dog, or caught any
sort of a bird in your life, I dare say."

"No, I never could.  One day, long ago, when mother was very busy, and I
was tired of playing, she gave me some salt into my hand, and told me I
might put it upon the birds' tails in the garden, and so catch them: but
I did not get one.  At last, half the salt was spilt, and the other half
was melted in my hand; and then dinner was ready.  I suppose that was a
joke of mother's."

"She wanted you out of the way; and what a fool you must have been not
to find that out!  Why, the birds could not have been sillier, if they
had let you put the salt upon their tails."

"It was a long while ago," pleaded Mildred.  "Here, take him," said
Roger, popping George into her arms.  "Show him how to catch birds if
you like.  I can't spend my time any longer here."

"How he cries after you!" exclaimed Mildred.  It was the first time
Roger had ever known anybody to be sorry for his going away.  The child
was certainly crying after him.  He half turned back, but turned again,
saying--

"Can't you tell him I will come again by-and-by?  I must be off now."

The truth was, Roger had never forgotten the chest--the oaken chest
which looked so tempting when he saw it floating down, and Oliver would
not stop to catch it,--the stout chest which he knew to be now safe and
sound somewhere about the house, unless harm had happened to it during
the night.  Oliver agreed that it was of importance to bring this chest
on shore: and the boys lost no time in doing it.  Mildred came out with
George to watch their proceedings, and found that Oliver had already
made one trip, and brought over some articles of use and value.  He came
up to his sister, with something which he held carefully covered up in
both hands.  He said gravely--

"Here, dear, put this in some safe place,--where no one will know of it
but you and me."

"A watch!--mother's watch!"

"I found it, with several things in her cupboard, thrown down by the
wall breaking."

"It does not seem to be hurt," observed Mildred.  "And how often you
have wished for a watch!"

"I think I shall never wish for anything again," said Oliver.  Mildred
saw his face as he turned away, and began to consider where she could
put the watch, so that it might be safe, and that Roger might not see
it, nor Oliver be reminded of it.

Ailwin and Roger were meantime disputing about which should have the
raft first,--Roger wanting to secure the chest, and Ailwin insisting
that it was high time the cow was milked.  Oliver said he was master
here in his father's absence, and he would have no quarrels.  All three
should go on the raft.  Roger should be landed at the staircase, where
he could be collecting what he wanted to bring over, while Oliver
proceeded to set Ailwin ashore beside the cow.  By working to the number
of three, in harmony, far more would be gained than by using up strength
in fighting and disputing.  He did not care how many times he crossed
the water this day, if those whom he rowed would but keep the peace.  He
would willingly be their servant in rowing, though he chose to be their
master in deciding.

Ailwin stared at Oliver.  It had struck her, and Mildred too, that
Oliver seemed to have grown many years older since the flood came.  He
was no taller, and no stronger;--indeed he seemed to-day to be growing
weaker with fatigue; but he was not the timid boy he had always appeared
before.  He spoke like a man; and there was the spirit of a man in his
eyes.  It was not a singular instance.  There have been other cases in
which a timid boy has been made a man of, on a sudden, by having to
protect, from danger or in sorrow, some weaker than himself.  Roger felt
something of the truth; and this had as much to do with making him quiet
and tractable to-day as his interest about George, or his liking to live
in a tent with companions, rather than in the open air and alone.

Ailwin was but a short time gone.  She came up the bank to Mildred,
swinging her empty milk-pail, and sobbing, as if from the bottom of her
heart.  Mildred did not think she had ever seen Ailwin cry so before;
and she could imagine nothing now but that Oliver was lost.  She turned
so giddy in a moment that she could not see Ailwin, and so sick that she
could not speak to her.

"So you have heard, Mildred,--you have heard, I see by your being so
white.  Oliver says she has been dead ever so many hours.  I say, if we
had gone the first thing, instead of staring and poking about yon
tumble-down house, we might have saved her.  I shall never milk her
again,--not a drop!--nor any other either, so far as I see; for there is
no saying that we shall ever get away.  Here I have not a drop of milk
to give you, my dear, though you are as white as the wall."

"Never mind," gasped Mildred, "if it is only the cow.  I thought it had
been Oliver."

"Oliver!  Bless your heart!  There he is as busy about the house and
things, as if nothing had happened; and just as provoking as you for
caring nothing about the poor cow.  There she lies, poor soul!  Dead and
cold, half in the water, and half out.  She was worth you two put
together, for some things,--I can tell you that."

"Indeed I am very sorry," said Mildred; and as she saw George pulling
about the empty can, she melted into tears, which would come faster and
faster till Oliver again stood by her side.  She tried to tell him what
she had been afraid of, and how she thought she should not have cried
but for that;--or, at least, not so much; but she really could not
explain what she felt, her sobs came so thick.

"I do not know exactly what you mean, dear," said Oliver; "but I
understand that you must be crying about the cow.  I am very sorry,--
very.  I had rather have lost anything we have left than the cow, now
George is so ill."--Here he bit his lip, and looked away from George,
lest he should cry like his sister.  He went on, however, talking rather
quickly at first, but becoming more composed as he proceeded.  He said,
"I have been thinking that it will never do for us who may be near
losing everything we have, and our lives, after all, to grieve over each
separate loss as it happens.  When you said your prayers the first night
of the flood..."

"How long ago that does seem!" exclaimed Mildred.

"It does, indeed!" replied Oliver, glad to hear her say something
distinctly.  "When we said our prayers that night, and whenever we have
said them since, we begged that we might be able to bear dying in this
flood,--to bear whatever it pleased God to do.  Now, our right way is to
make up our minds at once to everything, and just in the way it pleases
God.  Let us try to bear it cheerfully, whether we lose the cow or
anything else first; or whether we all die together.  That is the way,
Mildred!--And if you and I should not die together, that must be the way
too."

"I hope we shall though."

"I think it is very likely; and that before long.  And then how useless
it will have been to be unhappy about anything we can lose here!  People
who may be so near to death need not be anxious about this and that,
like those who seem to have long to live.  So come, dear, and see this
chest; and help us to settle what should be done with it."

There was nothing about the outside of the chest to show whose it might
be.  Everybody agreed that it ought to be opened immediately, lest all
that it contained should be spoiled by the wet.  But how to open it was
the question; for it had a very stout lock, and strong hinges.  After
many attempts, it was found that nothing short of proper tools would
answer the purpose: and Oliver went to see if his could be reached.
Through piles of rubbish, and a puddle of slimy water, he got to the
spot where he had left them,--hidden behind straw, that the Redfurns
might not discover and spoil them.  The straw was washed away, and his
beautiful lump of alabaster reduced to slime; but his tools were
there,--in no very bright condition, but safe.  He hastened away from
the spot; for thoughts crowded upon his mind of the day when he had last
used these tools, and the way of life in which he and Mildred had been
so happy, and which seemed now to be over for ever.  He thought of the
beautiful stone carvings over the doorway, and of what Pastor Dendel had
said to him about them.  They had fallen; and who knew what had become
of kind Pastor Dendel?  The garden, with all its fresh green and gay
blossoms, was now a muddy stream; rank smells and thick mists now came
up from what had been meadows and corn-fields; and his father, whose
manly voice had been daily heard singing from the mill, where was he?
It would not do to stay thinking of these things; so Oliver hastened
back with his tools, and with the heavy kitchen hammer, which he also
found.

None of these would open the chest.  The party managed it at last by
heating a large nail, which they drew out from a shattered door-post,
and burning holes in the wood of the chest, close by the nails which
fastened the hinges, so as to loosen them, and make them drop out.  The
lid being raised, a great variety of articles was found within, so
nicely packed that the wet had penetrated but a very little way.
Mildred had looked on thoughtfully; and she saw that Oliver paused when
the contents lay open to view.  She looked in her brother's face, and
said--

"I wonder who this chest belonged to?"

"I was just thinking so," observed Oliver.

"Never mind that," said Ailwin.  "We may know, some day or other, or we
may not.  Meantime, it is ours.  Come, make haste, and see what there is
to wrap up poor baby in, on cold nights."

"We will look for something of that sort,--I am sure we might use such a
thing as that," said Oliver: "but..."

"But," said Mildred, "I don't think these other things are ours, any
more than they ever were.  Nobody ever gave them to us.  They have
belonged to somebody else;--to somebody that may be wondering at this
moment where they are."

"Nonsense, Mildred!" exclaimed Ailwin.  "Who gave you the harness that
braces the raft, or the meal you have been living on these two days, I
wonder: and how do you know but somebody is hungry, and longing for it,
at this minute?"

"I wish they had it, then," replied Mildred.  "But, Oliver, were we
wrong to use the meal?  I never thought of that."

"Nor I: but I think we were right enough there.  The meal would all have
been spoiled presently; and meal (and the harness too) is a sort of
thing that we can pay for, or make up for in some way, if ever we can
meet with the people who lost that chest."

"And George, and all of us, might have starved without it."

"Yes: we must take what we want to eat, when it comes in our way, and
there is nobody to ask leave of: and, if ever we get out of this place,
we can inquire who lost a meal-chest or set of harness, and offer to pay
for what we took.  But I do think it is different with these things."

"So do I," said Mildred.  "Those table-cloths, and that embroidered
cap,--somebody has taken pains to make them, and might not like to sell
them.  And look!  Look at Roger!  He has pulled out a great heavy bag of
money."

"Now, Roger, put that bag where you found it," said Oliver.  "It is none
of yours."

"How do I know that I shall find it again, the next time I look?"
replied Roger, walking off with the bag.

Mildred was afraid of Oliver's following him, and of another quarrel
happening.  She put her arm within her brother's, and he could easily
guess why.

"Don't be afraid, dear," he said.  "If Roger chooses to do a dishonest
thing, it is his own affair.  We have warned him; and that is all we
have to do with it.  We must be honest ourselves,--that is all."

"Then I think we had better not look any further into the chest," said
Mildred; "only just to find something warm to wrap Geordie in.  The
clothes look so nice--we might fancy we wanted things that we can very
well do without."

"I am not much afraid of that," replied her brother: "and it would be a
pity the things should spoil with the damp.  They would be dry in an
hour in this warm sun; and we could pack them away again before night."

"Roger will never let you do that," declared Ailwin.  "Not a rag will he
leave to anybody that you don't stow away while he is out of sight.
Never did I see such perverse children as you, and so thankless for
God's gifts.  I should be ashamed to be no more grateful than you for
what He puts into your very hands."

Mildred looked at her brother now with a different face.  She was
perplexed and alarmed; but she saw that Oliver was not.

"Roger cannot carry off anything," he replied.  "He may bury and hide
what he pleases; but they will all be somewhere about the Red-hill; and
we can tell anybody who comes to fetch us off whatever we know about the
goods."

"Nobody will ever come and fetch us off," said Ailwin, beginning to cry.
"The people at a distance don't care a straw what becomes of us; and
you children here at hand are so perverse and troublesome, I don't know
how to bear my life between you."

"If nobody comes to save us," said Oliver, calmly, "I do not see what
good this money and these fine clothes will do to Roger and you."

"Roger and me!  Pray what do you mean by that?"

"I mean that you and he are for taking these things that do not belong
to us; and Mildred and I are against it.  Only tell me this one thing,
Ailwin.  Do you believe that your cloak and stockings were sent in Nan
Redfurn's way, that she might take them?  And do you think it would have
been perverse in her not to run away with them?"

"Now, Oliver, what nonsense you talk!  As if I wanted a rag of these
things for my own wear!  As if I would touch a penny that was not
honestly got!"

"So I always thought before; and so I shall think now, if you will help
Mildred to dry whatever is damp, and then pack all away safely--all but
such things as may do poor Geordie good."

Roger was not long in finding a hole in a tree where he could hide his
bag of money.  He cut a small cross in the bark by which he might know
the tree again, and hastened back, to see what else he could secure.  He
found plenty of pretty things hanging on the bushes, and did not wait
for their being quite dry to dress himself as he had never been dressed
before.  With the embroidered cap above mentioned on his head, a scarlet
waistcoat, worked with silver thread, hanging loose about his body, and
a light blue coat, whose skirts reached his heels, he looked so little
like the dirty ragged Roger, that Geordie shrank back from him, at first
sight, and did not smile till he heard the soft whistle again.  After
that, he seemed more pleased with the finery than all the rest of the
party together.  Ailwin glanced scornfully upon it, as if she had
disapproved from the beginning its being touched; and Oliver and Mildred
looked grave.

So very much pleased was Geordie with the gay waistcoat, that Roger took
him into his arms, that he might be able to stroke it, and play with the
silver flowers.  It was little fatigue, now, except to the spirits, to
nurse poor George.  He was shrunk to skin and bone, and so light as to
startle those who had been accustomed to lift him.  It was grievous,
however, to look at the ghastly stretched features, the flabby tremulous
little arms, and the suffering expression of countenance.  To hear his
feeble cry was worse still.  Oliver was really glad to take Mildred away
from seeing and hearing him, as long as the child would be quiet with
Roger: so he asked her to filter more water through the gravel.  He
begged her to get ready a great deal--enough for them all to drink, and
to bathe George in; for the water about them was becoming of a worse
quality every day.  It was unsafe even to live near; and much more to
drink.  So he scraped up a quantity of clean dry gravel from the ledges
of the precipice where the first flood had thrown it, and helped Mildred
to press this gravel down in the worn old basket.  This basket they set
across the tub, which they first thoroughly cleaned.  Mildred poured
water upon the gravel by degrees; and it was astonishing how much purer
and better it came out of the tub than it went into the basket.  When
the tub was full, Ailwin heated some of the water presently over her
large fire, and made a warm bath for the child.

Roger was unwilling to give him up when the bath was ready, so new and
so pleasant did he find it to be liked and loved by anybody--to have
power over any one, so much more easy and delightful to exercise than
that of force.  But, not only was the bath ready, and must not be left
to cool, but Oliver beckoned him away on some very particular business.

This business was indeed pressing.  All the party had complained that
the bad smells about the Red-hill became really oppressive.  They did
not know how great was the danger of their all falling ill of fever, in
consequence; but every one of them felt languid and uncomfortable.
Oliver made the circuit of the hill, to discover whether there was any
cause for this evil that could be removed.  He was surprised to find the
number of dead animals that were lying about in holes and corners, as
well as the heap of Roger's game, now actually putrefying in the sun.
There was also a dead horse thrown up, on the side where the quarry was;
and about this horse were such swarms of flies as Oliver had never seen.
It was to consult about pushing back this horse into the stream, and
clearing away all other dead things that they could find, that Oliver
now called Roger.

Roger was struck with what he observed.  He saw no difficulty in
clearing away the game he ought never to have left lying in a heap in
the sun.  He believed, too, that with stout poles he and Oliver could
shove the horse into the water; and, with a line tied to its head, tow
it out of the still water into the current which yet ran from the
quarry.  But what troubled him more was, that there was evidently a
mortality among the animals on the hill.  They were dying in all
directions; some for want of proper food, and from being put out of
their usual habits: others from being preyed upon by their stronger
neighbours.  Nothing seemed to thrive but the ravenous birds which came
in clusters, winging their way over the waters, and making a great
rustling of their pinions as they descended to perch upon some dead
animal, pulling it to pieces before the very eyes of the boys, as they
stood consulting what to do.  It was a horrid sight: and it brought the
horrid thought that soon probably there would be no game left for food
for the party; and that what there was meantime might be unwholesome.
Oliver had never imagined that the bold boy, Roger Redfurn, could look so
alarmed as he did at this moment.

"Never mind, now, Roger," said he, "what is likely to become of you and
me.  Wait, and find that out by-and-by.  What I am afraid of is seeing
Mildred look at all as George does now.  Come, let us set to work!
Don't stand looking up in the sky, in that way.  Help me--do.  Cannot
Spy help?  Call him; will you?"

"We can't get away!" exclaimed Roger, as if now, for the first time,
awakened to his situation.  "Those vile birds--they can go where they
like--nasty creatures--and we cannot stir from where we are!"

"I wish we had our singing birds back again, instead of these
creatures," said Oliver.  "Our shy, pretty, innocent little birds, that
used to be so pleased to pick up twigs and straws to build their nests
with, and be satisfied with the worms and slugs and flies that they
cleared away from the garden.  I wish we had them, instead of these
ugly, saucy, dirty birds.  But our birds are happier somewhere else, I
dare say; in some dry, pleasant place among those hills, all sweet with
flowers, and cool with clear running water."

"They can get there, and we can't.  We can't get out of this hot
steaming place: and those hills look further off every day.  I wish my
uncle had been dead before he brought us down off the moors last time.
I wish he had, I know.  If I was on the moor now, after the plovers..."

"Come, come; forget all that now, and set to work," interrupted Oliver.
"If you won't call Spy to help, I will see whether he will mind me."

Spy came, with some hesitation, in answer to a whistle which was like
his master's, but not exactly the same.  His master soon set him to
work, and began to work himself, in a sort of desperation.  It was
astonishing what a clearance was made in a short time.  But it did not
do all the good that was expected.  There was so much vegetable decay in
the region round, that the floating dead animals off to a distance
caused only a partial relief.

While the boys were hard at work at their disagreeable task, Mildred was
enjoying seeing George in his warm bath.  Ailwin held him there, while
Mildred continued her useful business of filtering water, talking to the
child all the while.  The poor little fellow soon left off crying, and
moved his weak limbs about in the tepid water, trying to splash Ailwin,
as he had been wont to splash his mother in play, every morning when she
washed and dressed him.

"I am sure it does him a great deal of good," exclaimed Mildred.  "I
will filter quantities of water; and he shall have a bath as often as
ever it is good for him.  Suppose it should make him well!"

Ailwin shook her head.  She saw how impossible it would be even to keep
a healthy child well in the absence of proper food, in an unwholesome
atmosphere, and without sufficient shelter from the changes of weather
which might come at any hour, and must come soon.  How unlikely it was
that a sick baby should recover under such circumstances, she was well
aware.  Yet she little thought how near the end was.

After his bath, Geordie lay, nicely covered up, on a mattress under the
tent.  One or other of his nurses visited, him every few minutes; and
both were satisfied that he was comfortably asleep.  The boys came for
some dinner, at last; and while Oliver went to wash his hands in clean
water, Roger stooped over the child to kiss him.  Before doing so,
however, he started back, and asked Ailwin why the baby's eyes looked so
strangely.  They were half closed, and seemed like neither sleep nor
waking.  Ailwin sat down on the mattress, and took him into her arms,
while Mildred ran to call Oliver.  The poor child stretched himself
stiff across Ailwin's knees, and then breathed no more.

When Oliver and Mildred came running back, Ailwin was putting her cheek
near the child's mouth, to feel if there was indeed no breath.  She
shook her head, and her eyes ran over with tears.  Oliver kneeled down,
and put his hand to the heart--it did not beat.  He lifted the wasted
arm--it fell, as if it had never had life in it.  There lay the little
body, still unmoved, with the face composed,--the eyes dim and half
closed, the ear hearing nothing, the tongue silent, while all were
calling on little George to say something he had been fond of saying, to
hearken to something he had loved to hear, and--all in vain.

"Whistle to him, Roger!" exclaimed Mildred, through her trembling.  "Try
if he cannot hear that.  Whistle to him softly."

Roger tried; but no notice was taken of the forced, irregular whistle
which was the best he could give at the moment.

"Listen, dear!  Hark, George!  Only hear!" exclaimed Mildred and Ailwin.

"O hush!  All of you!" exclaimed Oliver.  "Be quiet, Mildred dear!  Our
little brother is dead."

Roger threw himself on the grass, and hid his face on his arms.  He
moaned and rocked himself about, so that, even in the first moments of
their grief, the brother and sister looked at each other with awe.

"Come away with me, dear," whispered Oliver to his sister.  "Ailwin,
give George to me.  Let me have him in my arms."

"Bless you, my dears; it is not George any longer.  It is a poor little
dead body.  You must not call it George."

"Give him to me," said Oliver.  He took the body from Ailwin's arms,
carrying it as gently as if anything could have hurt it now; and he and
Mildred walked away towards the spot where the bee-shed had stood.
Ailwin gazed after them, dashing away the tears with the back of her
hand, when they gathered so that she could not see.

Oliver and Mildred walked on till they could descend the bank a little,
and sit, just above the waters, where they knew they were out of sight
of everybody.  This bank presented a strange appearance, such as the
children had been wondering at for some days, till Ailwin remembered
that she had often heard say that there was once a thick forest growing
where the Levels were now spread, and that the old trees were, every
one, somehow underground.  It now appeared that this was true.  As the
earth was washed away in the channel, and cut down along the bank, large
trunks of trees were seen lying along, black as coal.  Some others
started out of the bank; and the roots of a few spread like network,
holding the soil together, and keeping the bank firm in that part.  Upon
one of the trunks, that jutted out, Oliver took his seat; and Mildred
placed herself beside him.

"Let him lie on my knee now," said she.

"Presently," said Oliver.  "How easy and quiet he looks!"

"And how quietly he died!" observed Mildred.  "I did not think it had
been such an easy thing to die,--or half so easy for us to bear to see."

"The hard part is to come, dear.  We are glad now to see him out of his
pain--so comfortable as he looks at this moment.  The hard part will be
not to hear his little voice any more--never ...  But we must not think
of that now.  I hope, Mildred, that you are not sorry that George is
dead.  I am not, when I think that he may be with father and mother
already."

"Already?"

"Yes--if they are dead.  Perhaps they have been pitying poor baby all
the time he has been ill, crying and moaning so sadly; and now he may be
with them, quite happy, and full of joy to meet them again."

"Then they may be seeing us now."

"Yes; they will not forget us, even the first moment that George's
little spirit is with them.  Do not let them see us sad, Mildred.  Let
them see that we are glad that they should have George, when we could do
nothing for him."

"But we shall miss him so when ...  Oliver!  He must be buried!"

"Yes.  When that is done, we shall miss him sadly.  We must expect that.
But we must bear it."

"If we die here," said Mildred, "it will be easy to do without, him for
such a little while.  But if we ever get away, if we grow up to be as
old as father and mother, what shall we do, all those years, without
once hearing Geordie laugh, or having him to wake us in the morning?
What long things people's lives are!  It will seem as if ours would
never be done, if we have to wait all that time to see Geordie again."

"I wish we were dead!" sighed Oliver.  "I am sure, so do I.  And dying
is so very easy!"

"The pastor always said there was nothing to be afraid of," said
Oliver--"I mean, for innocent people.  And Geordie was so innocent, he
was fit to go directly to God."

"If we die here," said Mildred, "Roger must too.  What was the matter
with him just now, do you think?  Was he thinking about that?"

"He was very miserable about something.  Oh, Mildred, do look!  Did you
ever see Geordie look sweeter?  Yes, you may have him now."

And Oliver quietly laid the child in Mildred's arms.  "Yet," said he,
sighing, "we must bury him."

"Oh, when?" asked Mildred.

"Better do it while his face looks as it does now.  To-morrow is Sunday.
We will do no work to-morrow, and bury Geordie."

"Where?  How?"

"We will choose the prettiest place we can find, and the quietest."

"I wish the pastor was here," said Mildred.  "I never saw a funeral,
except passing one in the road sometimes."

"We need not be afraid of doing wrong about the funeral, dear.  We must
make some kind of little coffin; and Roger will help me to dig a grave,
and if we have no pastor to say prayers, you and I know that in our
hearts we shall be thanking God for taking our little brother to be safe
and happy with him."

"And then I may plant some flowers upon his grave, may not I?  And that
will bring the bees humming over it.  How fond he was of going near the
hives, to hear the bees hum!  Where shall his grave be?"

"Under one of the trees, one of the shadiest."

"Oh, dear--here comes Ailwin!  I wish she would let us alone."

Ailwin was crying too much to speak.  She took the body from Mildred's
arms with a gentle force, kissing the little girl as she did so.  She
covered up the baby's face with her apron as she walked away.

The children went among the trees to fix on a spot for the grave.  They
found more than one that they liked; but suddenly remembered that the
ground was hard, and that they had no spade, nor any tool with which
they could make a deep hole.

Oliver was greatly disturbed at this,--more than he chose to show when
he saw how troubled his sister also was.  After thinking for some time
to no purpose,--feeling that he could not bear to commit the body to the
foul flood, and remembering with horror how many animals were scratching
up the earth all over the Red-hill, where the ground was not too hard,
and how many odious birds of prey were now hovering in the air, at all
hours,--after thinking over these things with a heavy heart, he begged
Mildred to go home to Ailwin, and to ask Roger to come to him in the
wood, to consult what must be done.

Mildred readily went: but she hardly liked to speak to Roger when she
saw him.  He was watching, with a sulky air, what Ailwin was doing, as
she bent over the mattress.  His eyes were red with crying; but he did
not seem the more gentle for that.  When Mildred had given her message,
he moved as if he thought it a great trouble to go; but Mildred then
suspected what was indeed the truth,--that he was unhappy at the child's
death, and was ashamed of appearing so, and put on a gruff manner to
hide it.  Seeing this, the little girl ran after him, as he sauntered
away, put her hand in his, and said,--

"Do help Oliver all you can.  I know how he would have tried to help you
if George had been your little brother."

"'Tis all the same as if he had been," muttered Roger.  "I'm sure I am
just as sorry."

"Are you, indeed?" said Mildred, her eyes now filling with tears.

Roger could not bear to see that; and he hastened away.  Mildred found a
great change when she looked on the baby's face again.  The eyes were
quite closed, and Ailwin had tied a bandage round his head,--under the
chin, and among the thick hair which used to curl so prettily, but which
had hung straight and damp since he had been ill.  He was now strangely
dressed, and laid out straight and stiff.  He did not look like Geordie;
and now Mildred began to know the dreary feelings that death brings into
families.  She longed for Oliver to come home; and would have gone to
see what he was about, but that she did not like to leave the tent and
the body while Ailwin was busy elsewhere, which was now the case.

When, at length, the boys returned, they reported that, for many
reasons, there could not be a grave under the trees, as they would have
liked.  They had hopes of making one which would save the body from the
flood, and would serve at least till the day (if that day ever came)
when it might be removed to some churchyard.  They had no tools to dig a
deep hole with; and if there was a hole, it must be deep: but they found
they could excavate a space in the bank, under the trunk of one of the
large buried forest-trees.  They could line this hole with hewn stones
brought from the shattered wall of the house, and could close it in also
with a stone,--thus making the space at once a coffin and a grave, as
secure from beast or bird of prey as any vault under any church-wall.
Oliver had found among the ruins one of the beautiful carved stones
which he had always admired as it surmounted the doorway of their home.
With this he meant to close in the little vault.  At some future time,
if no one should wish to disturb the remains, ivy might be led over the
face of the bank, and about this sculptured stone; and then, he thought,
even those who most loved little George could not wish him a better
grave.



CHAPTER TEN.

GRAVES IN THE LEVELS.

Oliver so much wished that the next day (Sunday, and the day of his
little brother's funeral) should be one of rest and decent quiet, that
he worked extremely hard, as long as the light lasted, and was glad of
all the help the rest of the party could give.

To make an excavation large enough for the body was no difficult task;--
the earth being soft, and easily removed from the trunks, roots, and
branches of buried trees, which seemed to run all through the interior
of the bank.  But the five stones with which the grave was to be lined
were of considerable thickness; and Oliver chose to have them nicely
fitted in, that no living creature should be able to enter this place
sacred to the dead.

How astonished were they all to find that this was already a place of
the dead!  While Ailwin was holding one of the stones against one end of
the excavation, and Oliver was striking and fixing it with the great
hammer, Roger was emptying out soil from the other end.  He exclaimed
that he had come upon some large thing made of leather.

"I dare say you have," said Ailwin.  "There are all manner of things
found by those who dig in the Levels--except useful things, I mean.  No
one ever knew anything useful come out of these odd places."

"You are wrong there," said Roger.  "I have got useful things myself
from under the carr, that brought me more money than any fish and fowl I
ever took out of the ponds on it.  Uncle and I found some old red
earthenware things..."

"Old red earthenware!" exclaimed Ailwin.  "As if old earthenware was
better than fish and fowl, when there is so much new to be had
now-a-days!  My uncle is a sailor, always going between this and
Holland; and he says the quantity of ware they bring over in a year will
hold victuals for all Lincolnshire.  And Dutch ware does not cost above
half what it did in my grandfather's time: so don't you be telling your
wonderful tales, Roger.  We sha'n't believe them."

"Well, then don't.  But I say again, uncle Stephen and I took gold for
the old red ware we got out of a deep hole in the carr."

"Very likely, indeed.  I wonder who has gold to throw away in that
manner.  However, I don't say but there may be such.  `Fools and their
money are soon parted,' some folks say."

"Who gave you the gold?" asked Oliver.

"You may ask that," said Roger; "but you may not believe me when I tell
you.  You know the Earl of Arundel comes sometimes into these parts.
Well,--it was he."

"When?  Why?"

"He often comes down to see the Trent, having the care of the forests
upon it: and one time he stopped near here, on his way into Scotland,
about some business.  They say he has a castle full of wonderful things
somewhere."

"What sort of things?" asked Ailwin.  "Horn spoons and pewter
drinking-mugs to his old red earthenware?"

"Perhaps," replied Roger, "But I heard nothing of them.  What I heard of
was old bricks, and stone figures, and all manner of stone jars.  Well,
a gentleman belonging to the Earl of Arundel chanced to come across us,
just after we had found a pitcher or two down in the moss; and he made
us go with him to the Earl..."

"You don't mean that you ever saw a lord to speak to!" exclaimed Ailwin,
turning sharp round upon Roger.

"I tell you I did, and uncle too."

Ailwin muttered that she did not believe a word of it; but her altered
manner towards Roger at the moment, and ever after, showed that she did.

"He asked us all manner of questions about the Levels," continued
Roger:--"I mean about the things that lie in the moss.  He did not seem
to care about the settlers and the crops, otherwise than in the way of
business.  All that he did about the earthenware was plainly for his
pleasure.  He bought all we could find on that spot; and he said if we
found any more curiosities at any time, we were ...  But I can't stand
talking any more."

And Roger glanced with suspicious eyes from the piece of leather (as he
called it) that he had met with in the bank to Oliver.  He wanted to
have the sole benefit of this new discovery.

"And what were you to do, if you found anything more?" asked Ailwin.
"One might easily bury some of the ware my uncle brings, and keep it in
the moss till it is well wetted; and then some earl might give one gold
for it.  Come, Roger, tell me what you were to do with your findings.
You owe it to me to tell me; considering that your people have got away
my cloak and warm stockings."

"Look for them in the moss,--you had better," said Roger.  "You will
find them there or nowhere."

Not a word more would he say of his own concerns.

Oliver did not want to hear more.  On being told of the Earl of
Arundel's statues and vases, he had, for a moment, longed to see them,
and wondered whether there were any alabaster cups in the collection;
but his thoughts were presently with George again.  He remembered that
Mildred had been left long enough alone with the body; and he dismissed
Ailwin, saying that he himself should soon have done, it was now growing
so dark.

As he worked on silently and thoughtfully, Roger supposed he was
observing nothing; and therefore ventured, turning his back on Oliver,
to investigate a little more closely the leathern curiosity he had met
with.  He disengaged the earth more and more, drew something out, and
started at what he saw.

"You _have_ found a curiosity," observed Oliver, quietly.  "That is a
mummy."

"No--'tis a man," exclaimed Roger, in some agitation.  "At least it is
something like a man.  Is not this like an arm, with a hand at the end
of it?--a little dried, shrunk, ugly arm.  'Tis not stiff, neither.
Look!  It can't be Uncle Stephen, sure--or Nan!"

"No, no: it is a mummy--a human body which has been buried for hundreds
and thousands of years."

Roger had never heard of a mummy; and there was no great wonder in that,
when even Oliver did not rightly know the meaning of the word.  All
animal bodies (and not only human bodies) which remain dry, by any
means, instead of putrefying, are called mummies.

"What do you mean by hundreds and thousands of years?" said Roger.
"Look here, how the arm bends, and the wrist!  I believe I could make
its fingers close on mine," he continued, stepping back--evidently
afraid of the remains which lay before him.  "If I was sure now, that it
was not Stephen or Nan ...  But the peat water does wonders, they say,
with whatever lies in it."

"So it does.  It preserves bodies, as I told you.  I will show you in a
minute that it is nobody you have ever known."

And Oliver took from Roger's hand the slip of wood with which he had
been working, and began to clear out more soil about the figure.

"Don't, don't now!" exclaimed Roger.  "Don't uncover the face!  If you
do, I will go away."

"Go, then," replied Oliver.  It appeared as if the bold boy and the
timid one had changed characters.  The reason was that Roger had some
very disagreeable thoughts connected with Stephen and Nan Redfurn.  He
never forgot, when their images were before him, that they had died in
the midst of angry and contemptuous feelings between them and him.
Oliver, on the other hand, was religious.  Though, in easy times, more
afraid than he ought to have been of dishonest and violent persons, he
had yet enough trust in God to support his spirits and his hope in
trial, as we have seen: and about death and the grave, and the other
world, where he believed the dead went to meet their Maker and Father,
he had no fear at all.  Nothing that Roger now said, therefore, made him
desist, till he had uncovered half the dried body.

"Look here!" said he--for Roger had not gone away as he had
threatened--"come closer and look, or you will see nothing in the dusk.
Did either Stephen or Nan wear their hair this way?  And is this dress
anything like Ailwin's cloak?  Look at the long black hair hanging all
round the little flat brown face.  And the dress: it is the skin of some
beast, with the hair left on--a rough-edged skin, fastened with a bit of
something like coal on the left shoulder.  I dare say it was once a
wooden skewer.  I wonder how long ago this body was alive.  I wonder
what sort of a country this was to live in, at that day."

Roger's fear having now departed, his more habitual feelings again
prevailed.

"I say," said he, returning to the spot, and wrenching the tool from
Oliver's hand; "I say--don't you meddle any more.  The curiosity is
mine, you know.  I found it, and it's mine."

"What will you do with it?" asked Oliver, who saw that, even now, Roger
rather shrank from touching the limbs, and turned away from the open
eyes of the body.

"It will make a show.  If I don't happen to see the earl, so as to get
gold for it, I'll make people give me a penny a piece to see it; and
that will be as good as gold presently."

"I wish you would bury it," earnestly exclaimed Oliver, as the thought
occurred to him that the time might come, though perhaps hundreds of
years hence, when dear little George's body might be found in like
manner.  He could not endure the idea of that body being ever made a
show of.

Of course, Roger would not hear of giving up his treasure; and Oliver
was walking away, when Roger called after him--

"Don't go yet, Oliver.  Wait a minute, and I will come with you."

Oliver proceeded, however, thinking that Roger would have to acquire
some courage yet before he could carry about his mummy for a show.

Oliver was only going for Mildred--to let her see, before it was quite
dark, what had been done, and what found.  When they returned, Roger was
standing at some distance from the bank, apparently watching his mummy
as it lay in the cleft that he had cleared.  He started when he heard
Mildred's gentle voice exclaiming at its being so small and so
dark-.  She next wondered how old it was.

After the boys had examined the ground again, and put together all they
had heard about the ancient condition of the Levels, they agreed that
this person must have been buried, or have died alone in the woods,
before the district became a marsh.  Pastor Dendel had told Oliver about
the thick forest that covered these lands when the Romans invaded
Britain; and how the inhabitants fled to the woods, and so hid
themselves there that the Roman soldiers had to cut down the woods to
get at them; and how the trees, falling across the courses of the
streams, dammed them up, so that the surrounding soil was turned into a
swamp; and how mosses and water-plants grew over the fallen trees, and
became matted together, so that more vegetation grew on the top of that,
till the ancient forest was, at length, quite buried in the carr.
Oliver now reminded his sister of all this: and they looked with a kind
of veneration on the form which they supposed was probably that of an
ancient Briton, who, flying from the invaders, into the recesses of the
forest, had perished there alone.  There was no appearance of his having
been buried.  No earthen vessels, or other remains, such as were usually
found in the graves of the ancients, appeared to be contained in the
bank.  If he had died lying along the ground, his body would have
decayed like other bodies, or been devoured by wild beasts.  Perhaps he
was drowned in one of the ponds or streams of the forest, and the body,
being immediately washed over with sand or mud, was thus preserved.

"What is the use of guessing and guessing?" exclaimed Roger.  "If people
should dig up George's bones, out of this bank, a thousand years hence,
and find them lying in a sort of oven, as they would call it, with a
fine carved stone for one of the six sides, do you think they could ever
guess how all these things came to be here?"

"This way of burying is an accident, such as no one would think of
guessing," said Oliver, sighing.  "And this dried body may be here, to
be sure, by some other accident that we know nothing about.  I really
wish, Roger, you would cover up the corpse again; at least, till we know
whether we shall all die together here."

This was what Roger could never bear to hear of.  He always ran away
from it: and so he did now.  Dark as it was growing, he passed over to
the house, and mounted the staircase (which stood as firm as ever, and
looked something like a self-supported ladder).  While he was vainly
looking abroad for boats, which the shadows of the evening would have
prevented his seeing if they had been there by hundreds, the brother and
sister speculated on one thing more, in connection with the spectacle
which had powerfully excited their imaginations.  Mildred whispered to
Oliver--

"If this old man and George lie together here, I wonder whether their
spirits will know it, and come together in heaven."

They talked for some time about the difference there must be between the
thoughts of an ancient Briton, skin-clothed, a hunter of the wolf, and
living on the acorns and wild animals of the forest, and the mind of a
little child, reared in the Levels, and nourished and amused between the
farm-yard and the garden.  Yet they agreed that there must have been
some things in which two so different thought and felt alike.  The sky
was over the heads of both, and the air around them, and the grass
spread under their feet:--both, too, had, no doubt, had relations, by
whom they had been beloved: and there is no saying how many things may
become known alike to all, on entering upon the life after death.
Oliver and Mildred resolved that if ever they should see Pastor Dendel
again, they would ask him what he thought of all this.  They agreed that
they would offer to help Roger to seek for other curiosities, to make a
show of; and would give him, for his own, all they could find, if he
would but consent to bury this body again, decently, and beside little
George.

The supper was eatable to-night; and so was the breakfast on the Sunday
morning; and yet Roger scarcely touched anything.  Oliver heard him
tossing and muttering during the night, and was sure that he was ill.
He was ill.  He would not allow that he was so, however; and dressed
himself again in the fine clothes he had taken from the chest.  It was
plain, from his shaking hand and his heavy eye, that he was too weak,
and his head aching too much for him to be able to do any work;
therefore Ailwin helped Oliver to finish the grave.

Roger inquired how the work proceeded: and it appeared that he meant to
attend the funeral, when he found that it was to be in the afternoon.
His companions did not believe him able: and he himself doubted it in
his heart, resolved as he was to refuse to believe himself very ill, as
long as he could keep off the thought.  He found an excuse, however, for
lying on the grass while the others were engaged at the grave.  Oliver
hinted to him, very gently, that Mildred and he had rather see him
dressed in the shabbiest clothes of his own, than following their little
brother to his grave in fine things which they could not but consider
stolen.  Roger was, in reality, only ashamed; but he pretended to be
angry; and made use of the pretence to stay behind.  While he lay, ill
and miserable, remembering that little George alone had seemed to love
him, and that George was dead, he believed it impossible that any one
should mourn the child as he did in his heart.

Oliver himself took something from the chest--carefully and reverently;
and carefully and reverently he put it back before night.  There was a
Bible, in Dutch; and with it a Prayer-book.  He carried these, while
Ailwin carried the body, wrapped in cloth, with another piece hanging
over it, like a pall.  As Oliver took Mildred's hand, and saw how pale
and sorrowful she looked (though quite patient), he felt how much need
they all had of the consolations and hopes which speak to mourners from
the book he held.

Ailwin did not understand Dutch; so Oliver thought it kindest and best
to say in English what he read, both from the Bible and Prayer-book.  He
read a short portion of what Saint Paul says about the dead and their
rising again.  Then all three assisted in closing the tomb, firmly and
completely; and then they kneeled down, and Oliver read a prayer for
mourners from his book.  They did not sing; for he was not sure that
Mildred could go through a hymn.  He made a sign to her to stay when
Ailwin went home; and they two sat down on the grass above the bank, and
read together that part of the Scripture in which Jesus desires his
followers not to let their hearts be troubled, but to believe in God and
in him.

Mildred was soon quite happy; and Oliver was cheered to see her so.  He
even began, after a time, to talk of the future.  He pointed out how the
waters had sunk, leaving now, he supposed, only about three feet of
depth, besides mud and slime.  This mud would make the soil more fertile
than it had ever been, if the remainder of the flood could by any means
be drawn off.  He thought his father might return, and drain his ground,
and rebuild the house.  Then the bank they sat on would overlook a more
beautiful garden than they had ever yet possessed.  The whole land had
been so well _warped_ (that is, flooded with fertilising mud) that
everything that was planted would flourish.  They might get the finest
tulip-roots from Holland, and have a bed of them; and another of choice
auriculas, just below George's tomb; and honeysuckles might be trained
round it, to attract the bees.

Mildred liked to hear all this; and she said so; but she added that she
should like it better still to-morrow, perhaps.  She felt so strangely
tired now, that she could not listen any more, even to what she liked to
hear.

"Are you going to be ill, do you think, dear?"

"I don't know.  Don't you think Roger is ill?"

"Yes; and I dare say we shall all have the fever, from the damps and bad
smells of this place."

"Well--never mind about me, Oliver.  I am only very, very tired yet."

"Come home, and lie down, and I will sit beside you," said Oliver.  "You
will be patient, I know, dear.  I will try if I can be patient, if I
should see you very ill."

He led her home, and laid her down, and scarcely left her for many
hours.  It was plain now that the fever had seized upon them; and where
it would stop, who could tell?  During the night he and Ailwin watched
by turns beside their sick companions.  This would not have been
necessary for Mildred; but Roger was sometimes a little delirious; and
they were afraid of his frightening Mildred by his startings and strange
sayings.

When Ailwin came, at dawn, to take Oliver's place, she patted him on the
shoulder, and bade him go to sleep, and be in no hurry to rouse himself
again; for he would not be wanted for anything if he should sleep till
noon.

Oliver was tired enough; but there was one thing which he had a great
mind to do before he slept.  He wished to look out once again from the
staircase, when the sun should have risen, to see whether there was no
moving speck on the wide waters--no promise of help in what now
threatened to be his extremity.  Ailwin thought him perverse; but did
not oppose his going when he said he was sure he should sleep better
after it.  She soon, therefore, saw his figure among the ruins of the
roof, standing up between her and the brightening sky.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

MORE HARDSHIP.

This morning was unlike the mornings which Oliver had watched since the
flood came.  There was no glowing sky towards the east; and he saw that
there would be no broad train of light over the waters, which should so
dazzle his eyes as almost to prevent his seeing anything else.  It was
now a stormy-looking sunrise.  Huge piles of clouds lay on the eastern
horizon, through which it seemed impossible that the rays of the sun
should pierce.  The distant church-spire looked black amidst the grey
flood: and the houses and chapel at Sandtoft, which now stood high out
of the water, had a dark and dismal air.  Oliver would have been rather
glad to believe that there would be no sunshine this day, if he had not
feared there would be storm.  He had so learned, in these few days, to
associate reeking fogs and putrid smells with hot sunshine, that a shady
day would have been a relief: but it there should come a tempest, what
could be done with the sick members of the party?  It was dangerous to
stand under the trees in a thunderstorm; and the poor tent would be
soaked through with a quarter of an hour's rain.  He thought it would be
best to take down the tent, and wrap up Mildred and Roger in the cloth;
and to pile the mattresses, one upon another, at the foot of the
thickest tree they could find; so that there might be a chance of one
bed being left dry for poor Mildred.

While arranging this in his mind, Oliver had been anxiously looking
abroad for any moving speck on the grey waters.  Seeing none, but
perceiving that the clouds were slowly mounting the sky, and moving
onwards, he felt that he ought to be going to the hill, to make such
preparations as were possible before the first raindrops should fall.
Slowly and sadly he turned away to do so, when, casting one more glance
eastwards, he perceived something moving--a dark speck, leaving the
ruined roof of a dwelling which stood about half-way between himself and
the hamlet.

There could be no doubt that this speck was a boat; and as it came
nearer, Oliver saw that it was--a large boat, but quite full.  He could
distinguish no figures in it, so heavy seemed the mass of people, or of
goods, with which it was crowded.  It came on and on, however; and
Oliver's heart beat faster as it came.  How he wished now that he had
kept a flag flying from the spot on which he stood!  How he wished he
now had a signal to fix on this height!  Though the boat-people were
still too far off to distinguish figures, a signal might catch their
eye.  If he went to the Red-hill for a flag, the boat might be gone away
before his return.  Trembling with haste, he stripped off his shirt, and
swung it in the air.  He even mounted the top stone, which, surrounded
by no wall, or other defence, hung over the waters below.  Oliver would
have said, half an hour before, that he could not have stood alone on
this perilous point: now, he not only stood there, but waved his white
signal with all his strength.

Did anybody notice it?

He once thought he saw what might have been an oar lifted in the air;
but he was not sure.  He was presently only too certain of something
else--that the boat was moving away, not in the direction in which it
had approached, but southwards.  He tried, as long as he could, to
disbelieve this; but there it went--away--away--and Oliver had to come
down from his stone, put on his clothes again, and find how thirsty he
was.

There was hope still, he felt--great hope: but he must keep it from
Mildred, who was in no condition to bear the disappointment of such a
hope.  He doubted whether Ailwin could control her tongue and her
countenance, while possessed of such news.  It would be hard not to be
able to tell any one of what so filled his thoughts; and he resolved to
see first what state Roger was in.

When he reached the tent, Roger was not there.  Ailwin could not tell
where he was.  He had staggered away, like a drunken person, she said--
he seemed so giddy; but she could not leave Mildred to see after him,
though he had spoken to a lord; if indeed that could be true of a boy
like him.  Ailwin looked up at the clouds, every moment, as she spoke;
and Mildred shivered, as if she missed the morning sunshine.  Oliver saw
that he must make ready for the storm, before he prepared for what might
follow.  He and Ailwin pulled down the long piece of cloth from its
support, doubled it again and again, and put Mildred into the middle of
it.  Oliver longed to lay her under a leafy tree; but he dared not, on
account of the lightning, which was already beginning to flash.  He and
Ailwin set up the deal table as a sort of penthouse over her; and then
busied themselves, in her sight, in piling together everything else they
had, to keep as many articles as possible from spoiling.

Oliver was just thinking that he might slip away to seek Roger, when he
saw that Mildred was sobbing, under the heap of cloth they had laid upon
her.  In a moment he was by her side, saying--

"What is the matter, dear?  Are you afraid of the storm?  I never knew
you afraid of thunder and lightning; but perhaps you may be now, because
you are ill."

"No," sobbed Mildred.

"I cannot help being glad of this storm," continued Oliver, "though it
is disagreeable, at the time, to people who have no house to go to.  I
hope it will clear the air, and freshen it; and that is the very thing
we want, to make you better."

"It is not that, Oliver.  I don't mind the storm at all."

"Then what makes you cry so, dear?  Is it about Geordie?"

"Yes.  Something about him that I don't think you know; something that I
shall never bear to think of.  It will make me miserable as long as I
live.  Do you know, I was tired of nursing him, and hearing him cry; and
I gave it up--the only thing I could do for him!  I asked Ailwin to take
him.  And in two days he was dead; and I could never do anything for him
any more."

Here a burst of grief stopped her voice.  Her brother said, very
solemnly,--

"Now, Mildred, listen to me,--to the little I can say--for you know I
cannot, in this place, stay and talk with you as we should both like,
and as we might have done at home.  I think you were almost always very
kind to Geordie; and I am sure he loved you very dearly.  But I have
heard mother say that the worst part of losing dear friends is that we
have to blame ourselves, more or less, for our behaviour to them,--even
to those we loved the very most.  So I will not flatter you, dear:
though I don't at all wonder at your being tired of hearing Geordie cry
that day.  I will not say whether you were right or wrong; but only put
you in mind that we may always ask for pardon.  Remember, too, that you
may meet Geordie again; and perhaps be kinder to him than we ever are to
one another here.  Now I will go, and come back again soon."

"Stop one minute," implored Mildred.  "I dreamed that you all went away
from this hill, and left me alone."

As she said this, she looked at her brother, with such a painful
wistfulness, that he saw that she had had a fever-dream, and was not yet
quite clear from its remains.  He laughed, as at something ridiculous;
which Mildred seemed to like: and then he reminded her more gravely,
that they could not get away from this place if they would.  If an
opportunity should occur, he assured her he would not leave hold of her
hand.  Nothing should make him step into a boat without her.  Poor
Mildred had fancied, bewildered as she was this morning, that if Oliver
knew of what she had done about George, he would think himself justified
in leaving her to perish on the hill; and yet she could not help telling
him.  Her mind was relieved, for the present, and she let him go.

He found Roger where he first looked for him,--near the mummy.  The poor
lad was too ill to stand; but he lay on the slimy bank, poking and
grubbing, with a stick and with his fingers, as deep in the soft soil as
he could penetrate.  Oliver saw that he had found some more
curiosities;--bunches of nuts,--nuts which were ripening on the tree
many hundreds of seasons ago; but which no hand had plucked till now.
Oliver could neither wonder nor admire, at this moment: nor was he vexed
(as he might have been at another time) at Roger's crawling hither, in
pursuit of gain, to be made more ill by every breath he drew while
stooping over the rank mud.

"Don't be afraid, Roger," said Oliver.  "I am not going to touch your
findings, or meddle with you.  I want you to change your clothes,--to
put off that finery,--and to let me know where the bag of money is that
you took out of the chest."

Roger stared.

"I am going to pack that chest again; and I want to see everything in
it, that it may be ready if any boat should come."

"Boat!" exclaimed Roger.

"Yes: a boat may come, you know; and we must not detain it, if such a
thing should happen.  If you die without restoring that money, Roger, it
will be a sin upon your soul: so tell me where it is, and have an easy
mind, I advise you.  That will be a good thing, if you live an hundred
years."

"There is a boat here now!  You are going to leave me behind!" cried
Roger, scrambling up on his feet, and falling again from weakness, two
or three times.  "I knew it," he continued; "I dreamt it all last night;
and it is going to come true to-day."

"Mildred dreamed the same thing; and it is because you are both ill,"
said Oliver.  "Lean upon me--as heavily as you like--and I will go home
with you, as slowly as you will, if you will tell me where the money-bag
is.  You will find no boat there now, whatever there may be by-and-by:
but if you will not tell me where the money-bag is, I will shake you off
now, and leave you here.  It is another person's money: and I must have
it."

Roger said he would tell, if Oliver would promise him not to leave him
alone on the island.  Oliver assured him that there was no danger
whatever of the deliverers of some of the party leaving others to
perish.  He owned that he was bound to make his sister his first care,
and Ailwin his next.  As boys, Roger and himself must be satisfied to be
thought of last; but he hoped they should neither of them do an ill turn
by the other.  He asked if Roger had ever received an ill turn from him.

"That is the thing," said Roger, sorrowfully: "and you have had so many
from me and mine!"

"I am sure I forgive them all, now you have once said that," cried
Oliver.  "I forgive and forget them all: and so would father, if he
heard you."

"No!  Would he?  And he said once that he and his would scorn to be like
me and mine."

"Did you hear him say that?  You used to hear every word we said to one
another, I think."

"It was Ailwin that threw that in my teeth."

"Father would not say so now: never after you had had Geordie on your
knees and made him fond of you, as you did."

"Do you really think so?"

"I am almost sure of it.  But he could not help thinking badly of you if
you keep that money."

"I am not going to keep it.  Do you go and find it, if you like, for I
can't.  It is in a hollow elm that stands between two beeches, on the
other side of the wood.  There is a little cross cut in the bark, on the
south side--that will help you to find it.  But don't you go till you
have got me to the tent."

Oliver helped him home, amidst lightning and splashing rain, explaining
as they went why the tent was down, but thinking it best to say nothing
of the boat to one so weak-spirited as Roger was now.  He then ran off,
and found the money-bag.  He wished the weather would clear, that he
might look out again: but, meanwhile, he felt that he was not losing
time in collecting together all the goods that were on the hill; for the
tempest so darkened and filled the air, that he knew he could not have
seen a furlong into the distance, if he had been on his perch at this
moment.  He wore his mother's watch in his pocket, feeling as if it
promised that he should meet her again, to put it back into her hands.

"Now, Oliver," said Ailwin, "I am vexed with you that you did not sleep
while you might, before this growling, splashing weather came on, and
while there was something of a shelter over your head.  If you don't go
to sleep the minute this tempest is over, I must see what I must do to
you: for you will be having the fever else; and then what is to become
of me, among you all, I should like to know?  I wish you would creep in
now between the mattresses under the tree, and never think of the storm,
but go to sleep like a good boy.  It is hardly likely that the lightning
should strike that particular tree, just while you are under it."

"But if you should chance to find me a cinder, when you thought it time
for me to be waking, Ailwin--would not that be as bad as my having the
fever?"

"Oliver!  How can you talk so?  How dare you think of such a shocking
thing?"

"You put it into my head, Ailwin.  But come--let me tell you a thing I
want you to do, if I should be away when it stops raining.  Here are
Roger's old clothes, safe and dry here between the beds.  When it leaves
off raining, make him pull off his wet finery, and put on his own dry
things; and keep that finery somewhere out of his way, that I may put it
back into the chest, where it ought to be lying now.  Will you do this,
Ailwin?"

"Why, I'll see.  If I was quite sure that he had nothing to do with this
storm, I might manage him as I could any other boy."

"Anybody may manage him to-day, with a little kindness.  He is ill and
weak-spirited; and you can touch his heart with a word.  If you only
remember how George cried after him, you will be gentle with him, I
know."

"Well, that's true: and I doubt whether a lord would have spoken with
him, if he had been so dangerous as he seems sometimes.  Now, as to
dinner to-day, Oliver--I really don't like to give Mildred such food as
the game on the island now is.  I am sure it is downright unwholesome.
Bird and beast, they are all dying off faster than we can kill them."

"The fowls are not all done, I hope.  I thought we had some meal-fed
fowls left."

"Just two; and that is all: and the truth is, I don't like to part those
two poor things, enjoying the meal-picking together; and then, they are
the last of our wholesome food."

"Then let us have them while they are wholesome.  Boil one to-day, and
make the broth as nice as you can for Mildred.  We will cook the other
to-morrow."

"And what next day?"

"We will see to that when the day comes.  Oh dear!  When will these
clouds have emptied themselves?  Surely they cannot pour down at this
rate long."

"The thunder and lightning are just over, and that's a comfort," said
Ailwin.  "You might stand under any tree, now, Oliver; and you go
wandering about, as if you were a duck in your heart, and loved the
rain."

Ailwin might wonder, for Oliver was indeed very restless.  While waiting
the moment when he might again cross to the staircase, he could not even
stand still under a tree.  The secret of his having seen the boat was
too heavy a one to be borne when he was no longer busy.  He felt that he
should tell, if he remained beside his sister and Ailwin; so he wandered
off, through the wood, to try how far he could see over the waters to
the south, now that the tempest was passing away.

Through the trees he saw some one--a tall person, walking on the grass
by the water-side.  He ran--he flew.  There was a boat lying against the
bank, and two or three men walking towards the wood.  The foremost was
Pastor Dendel.  Oliver sprang into his arms, clung round his neck for a
moment, and then fainted away.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

NEWS.

Oliver soon recovered.  The strong, manly caress of the pastor seemed to
revive him, even more than the water the others threw on his face.  His
first word was "Mother."

"She is safe, my boy: and she will be well when I take you to her.  Are
you alone here, Oliver?"

"Alone!  O no!  Don't let these men go and startle Mildred and the
rest--"

"Thank God!" exclaimed Pastor Dendel.

The two men who were with him seemed about to raise a shout, and wave
their hats, but the pastor forbade them by a gesture.  He whispered to
Oliver,--

"Mildred, and who else, my dear?  We know nothing, you are aware.  Your
father--?"

"He was carried off in the mill,--out to the Humber--"

Oliver stopped, as he saw the men exchange a look of awe, which took his
breath away again.

"We have something like news of your father too, Oliver.  There is a
rumour which makes us hope that he may be safe at a distance.  Your
mother believes it, as she will tell you.  Is it possible that you are
all alive, after such a calamity as this?"

"George is dead, sir.  We buried him yesterday.  Ailwin is here, with
Mildred and me; and Roger Redfurn."

One of the men observed that he had hoped, as one good that would come
of the flood, that the Levels were rid of the Redfurns.

"Do not say that," said Oliver.  "Roger has helped us in many things;
and he was kind to little George.  Let me go, sir.  I can walk now very
well: and I want to tell them that you are come."

"Go, my boy: but do it gently, Oliver,--gently."

"That is what I want, sir,--that they should not see or hear you: for
Mildred is ill,--and Roger too.  Please keep out of sight till I come
for you.  So mother is safe,--really?"

"Really, and we will take you all to her."

Mildred, lying uncomfortably in the soaked cloth (for the rain had
penetrated everything), was yet dozing,--now and then starting and
calling out.  Oliver took her hand, to wake her up, and asked her, with
a smile, as she opened her eyes, whether she was dreaming of a boat
again.  Mildred believed not, but her head was sadly confused; so much
so, that she heard of the boat which had really come, and the pastor and
her parents, without showing any surprise or pleasure.  Little ceremony
was necessary with the strong Ailwin; and one of the men made short work
with Roger, by lifting him and carrying him into the boat.  Oliver said
a word to the pastor about seeing George's grave, and about the chest
and the money-bag which belonged to somebody who might want them much.
The pastor took charge of the bag, but declared that everything else
must be left for another trip, at a more leisure time.  Mrs Linacre was
waiting,--and in what a state of expectation!

While the two stout rowers were pulling rapidly away from the Red-hill,
and in the direction of Gainsborough, the pastor explained to the party
what they most wanted to know.  Mrs Linacre had heard some rumour which
alarmed her on the day of the flood, and had locked up her shed, and set
out homewards when the waters gushed over her road, and compelled her to
turn back.  Like a multitude of others, as anxious and miserable as
herself, she had ever since been wandering about in search of a boat,
and imploring aid from every one she met.

For three days, it appeared as if there really were no boats in all the
district.  Some had certainly been swamped and broken by the rush of the
flood: and there was great difficulty in bringing round from the coast
such as could there be had from the fishermen.  Some farmers on the hill
had lent their oxen, to bring boats over the hills; and others, men to
row them; and this was in time to save many lives.  What number had been
lost, it was impossible yet to say; but the cleverness and the
hopefulness with which a multitude had struggled for life, during five
days of hardship and peril were wonderful and admirable.  Mrs Linacre
had trusted in the power which God gives his children in such extremity,
and had been persuaded throughout (except during short moments of
despair), that she should see her husband and children again.  In this
persuasion she had been sustained by the pastor, from the moment of his
finding her, after his own escape.

Of his own escape the pastor would say nothing at present.  The
children's minds were too full now for such tales of wonder and of
horror as they must hear hereafter.  Neither would he permit a word on
the origin of the flood.  He said they must think as little as they
could of the wicked deeds of men, in this hour of God's mercy.  One
prayer, in every heart, that God would forgive all evil-minded men,--one
such prayer let there be; and then, no more disturbing thoughts of
enemies in the hour of preservation.

Oliver could not trust himself to ask, in the presence of strangers,
what the rumour was, which the pastor had mentioned, about his father.
The pastor was very apt to understand what was stirring in people's
hearts; and he knew Oliver's at this moment.  He explained to him that a
sailor had declared, on landing at Hull, that the ship in which he was
had spoken with a Dutch vessel, off the Humber, in the night, by the
light of lanterns only, when a voice was heard, as if from the deck of
the Dutchman, crying out, "Will some one have the charity to tell the
wife of Linacre of the Levels that he is saved?"  The sailors had some
fears about this voice--thought the message odd--fancied the voice was
like what they should suppose a ghost's to be; and at length, persuaded
one another that it came, not from any ship, but from the air overhead;
and that the message meant that Linacre was dead, and that his soul was
saved.  When they came ashore, however, and found what had befallen the
Levels, they began to doubt whether it was not, after all, the voice of
a flesh and blood man that had called out to them.  When the pastor now
heard how the miller was floated off in his mill, he had little doubt of
the good man having been picked up in the Humber, by a vessel sailing
for Holland, which could not stop to set him ashore, but which now
contained him, safe and well.  Within two months, he would be heard of
or seen, it might fairly be hoped.

Mrs Linacre was kindly taken care of in a farm-house, near the spring--
that farm-house where she had often taken her copper money to be changed
for silver: but she had been little within doors, day or night.  She had
paced all day by the brink of the flood; and as long as the moon was up,
had sat at night on a rising ground, looking over the waters towards the
Red-hill.  She had discovered that the mill was gone, when other eyes
could distinguish nothing so far off.  No one had a glass to lend her--
so, at least, it was said; but some whispered that a glass might have
been procured, but that it was thought she could see only what would
distress her, and nothing that could do her any good.

She was on the brink of the water when the boat came near.  She would
have thrown herself in to meet her children, if a neighbour had not been
there to hold her back.

Oliver's first words to her were, that he believed his father was safe
on his way to Holland, and would soon be coming back.  The pastor's
first words were, as he placed Mildred in her arms--

"Two children are here restored to you.  Will you not patiently resign
your other little one?"

The speechless mother was hurrying away, with Mildred on her bosom, and
drawing Oliver by the hand, which she clasped convulsively, when he
said--

"Mother, help me to keep a promise I have made.  Here is Roger Redfurn--
very ill.  I promised we would not forsake him.  Let him go with us,
till he is well."

"Whatever you will, my boy; but do not leave me, Oliver,--not for a
moment."

"Go on," said the pastor.  "We are bringing Roger after you.  We shall
be at home as soon as you."

"Home," was the friendly farm-house.  There, before the end of the day,
had Oliver learned that his morning signal had been seen from the large
boat; and that the reason why the large boat had rowed away was, not
only that it was full, but that the waters were now too shallow about
the Red-hill for any but small craft.  Before the end of the day Mrs
Linacre had been seen to look like herself once more; and Ailwin had
told to the wondering neighbours the tale of the few days, which seemed
now like years to look back upon.  She told more than even Oliver had
observed of the miserable state of their place of refuge, which would
soon have been a place of death.  Scarcely a breathing thing, she said,
was left alive: and, in going to the boat, she had seen the soaked
bee-hives upset, and the chilled bees lying about, as if there was no
spirit left in them.  She shuddered when she thought of the Red-hill.
Then she stimulated the farm-house people to take care of Roger,--a task
in which Oliver left them little to do.  They were willing enough,
however; for Ailwin told them that though Roger had been an odd boy in
his time, owing to his having been brought up by queer people, yet,
considering that those people were drowned and gone, and that Roger had
been noticed by a lord, she did not doubt he might turn out well, if it
so pleased God.

How closely did Mildred clasp her mother's neck that evening!  Knowing
nothing else, and feeling very strangely, she yet understood that she
was in a place of shelter and comfort, and felt that her head rested on
her mother's bosom--on that pillow which has something so far better
than all warmth and softness.  By degrees she began to be aware that
there was cool and fresh water, and sweet-smelling flowers, and that she
was tenderly bathed, and laid to rest on a bed which was neither wet nor
under a tree.  There was a surprising silence all round her, she felt,
as she grew stronger, which no one yet attempted to explain to her; but
her mother smiled at her so happily, that she supposed she was
recovering.

Mrs Linacre did look happy, even in the midst of her tears for her poor
baby.  Mildred _was_ recovering, Oliver ate and slept, and whistled
under the window--like a light-hearted boy, as he once again amused
himself with carving every piece of hard wood he could find.  It was
clear that he had escaped the fever; and every day that refreshed his
colour, and filled out his thin face again, brought nearer the hour of
his father's return.






End of Project Gutenberg's The Settlers at Home, by Harriet Martineau

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