It came dangerously, for one night the river, leaping the feeble barrier of Devil's Ford, swept away houses and banks, scattered with unconscious irony the laboriously collected heaps of gravel left for hydraulic machinery, and spread out a vast and silent lake across the submerged flat.
In the hurry and confusion of that night the girls had thrown open their cabin to the escaping miners, who hurried along the slope that was now the bank of the river.

Suddenly Christie felt her arm grasped, and she was half-led, half-dragged, into the inner room.

Her father stood before her.
"Where is George Kearney ?" he asked tremulously.
"George Kearney!" echoed Christie, for a moment believing the excitement had turned her father's brain.

"You know he is not here; he is in San Francisco." "He is here--I tell you," said Carr impatiently; "he has been here ever since the high water, trying to save the flume and reservoir." "George--here!" Christie could only gasp.
"Yes! He passed here a few moments ago, to see if you were all safe, and he has gone on towards the flume.

But what he is trying to do is madness.