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Back into the house went Belle and Timmy, Miss Carter and Big Hong. Back came Little Hong with the car. Silence held the ranch; the waning winter light fell on Timmy, busy with blocks; on Belle darning; on Miss Carter reading a light novel. The fire blazed, sank to quivering blue, leaped with a sucking noise about a fresh log, and sank again. At four the lamps were lighted, the two women fussed amicably together over Timothy’s supper. Later, when he was asleep, Miss Carter, who had no particular fancy for the shadows that lurked in the corners of the big room and the howling wind on the roof, said sociably: “Shall we have our dinner on two little tables right here before the fire, Belle?” And still later, after an evening of desultory reading and talking, she suggested that they leave their bedroom doors open. Belle agreed. If Miss Carter was young, Belle was younger still.

The days went by. Hong served them delicious meals. Timmy was angelic. They unearthed halma, puzzles, fortune-telling cards. The rain fell steadily; the eaves dripped; the paths were sheets of water.

“It certainly gets on your nerves–doesn’t it?” said Miss Carter, when the darkness came on Thursday night. Belle, from the hall, came and stood beside her at the fireplace.

“Our ‘phone is cut off,” said she, uneasily. “The water must of cut down a pole somewheres. Let’s look at the river.”

Suddenly horror seemed to seize upon them both. They could not cross the floor fast enough and plunge fast enough into the night. It was dark out on the porch, and for a moment or two they could see nothing but the swimming blackness, and hear nothing but the gurgle and drip of the rain-water from eaves and roof. The rain had stopped, or almost stopped. A shining fog seemed to lie flat–high and level over the river-bed.

Suddenly, as they stared, this fog seemed to solidify before their eyes, seemed curiously to step into the foreground and show itself for what it was. They saw it was no longer fog, but water–a level spread of dark, silent water. The Beaver Creek had flooded its banks and was noiselessly, pitilessly creeping over the world.

“It’s the river!” Belle whispered. “Gee whiz, isn’t she high!”

“What is it?” gasped Miss Carter, from whose face every vestige of color had fled.

“Why, it’s the river!” Belle answered, slowly, uneasily. She held out her hand. “Thank God, the rain’s stopped!” she said under her breath. Then, so suddenly that Miss Carter jumped nervously, she shouted: “Hong!”

Big Hong came out, and Little Hong. All four stood staring at the motionless water, which was like some great, menacing presence in the dark–some devil-fish of a thousand arms, content to bide his time.

The bungalow stood on a little rise of ground in a curve of the river. On three sides of it, at all seasons, were the sluggish currents of Beaver Creek, and now the waters met on the fourth side. The garden path that led to the Emville road ran steeply now into this pool, and the road, sloping upward almost imperceptibly, emerged from the water perhaps two hundred feet beyond.

“Him how deep?” asked Hong.

“Well, those hollyhocks at the gate are taller than I am,” Belle said, “and you can’t see them at all. I’ll bet it’s ten feet deep most of the way.”

She had grown very white, and seemed to speak with difficulty. Miss Carter went into the house, with the dazed look of a woman in a dream, and knelt at the piano bench.

“Oh, my God–my God–my God!” she said in a low, hoarse tone, her fingers pressed tightly over her eyes.

“Don’t be so scared!” said Belle, hardily, though the sight of the other woman’s terror had made her feel cold and sick at her stomach. “There’s lots of things we can do–“

“There’s an attic–“

“Ye-es,” Belle hesitated. “But I wouldn’t go up there,” she said. “It’s just an unfloored place under the roof–no way out!”