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!”

“No—­no—­no—­not there, then!” Miss Carter said heavily, paler than before.  “But what can we do?”

“Why, this water is backing up,” Belle said slowly, “It’s not coming downstream, so any minute whatever’s holding it back may burst and the whole thing go at once—­or if it stops raining, it won’t go any higher.”

“Well, we must get away as fast as we can while there is time,” said Miss Carter, trembling, but more composed.  “We could swim that distance—­I swim a little.  Then, if we can’t walk into Emville, we’ll have to spend the night on the hills.  We could reach the hills, I should think.”  Her voice broke.  “Oh—­this is terrible!” she broke out frantically—­and she began to walk the floor.

“Hong, could we get the baby acrost?” asked Belle.

“Oh, the child—­of course!” said Miss Carter, under her breath.  Hong shook his head.

“Man come bimeby boat,” he suggested.  “Me no swim—­Little Hong no swim.”

“You can’t swim” cried Miss Carter, despairingly, and covered her face with her hands.

Little Hong now came in to make some earnest suggestion in Chinese.  His uncle, approving it, announced that they two, unable to swim, would, nevertheless, essay to cross the water with the aid of a floating kitchen bench, and that they would fly for help.  They immediately carried the bench out into the night.

The two women followed; a hideous need of haste seemed to possess them all.  The rain was falling heavily again.

“It’s higher,” said Miss Carter, in a dead tone.  Belle eyed the water nervously.

“You couldn’t push Timmy acrost on that bench?” she ventured.

It became immediately evident, however, that the men would be extremely fortunate in getting themselves across.  The two dark, sleek heads made slow progress on the gloomy water.  The bench tipped, turned slowly, righted itself, and tipped again.  Soon they worked their slow way out of sight.