The river had risen as the lakes in the wilds it came from overflowed with melted snow, and raged, level with its banks, in angry flood, rolling broken trees down stream and strewing ledges and shingle with battered branches.

Its hoarse roar echoed across the bush, and Thirlwell felt that there was something daunting in the deep-toned sound.

One could understand that a man like Driscoll, whose brain was dulled by liquor, might let it fill him with vague terrors when the woods were still at night.
But listening to the river presently led Thirlwell to think about Strange.

There was something pathetic about the story of his life, for Agatha had made Thirlwell understand her father's long patience, gentleness, and self-sacrifice.

His duty to his family had cost him much, but he had cheerfully paid.