“All housekeepers have a thankless task,” laughed Eliza.

When they reached the river-bank she saw everything apparently just as when she had last seen it.  “Why, it’s not as bad as I imagined!” she exclaimed.  “I thought I’d find everything going to smash.”

“Oh, there’s nothing spectacular about it.  There seldom is about serious mishaps in this business.  The ice has risen only an inch or more so far, but the very slowness and sureness of it is what’s alarming.  It shows that the water is backing up, and as the flow increases the rise of the ice will quicken.  If it starts to move up or down stream, we’re lost.”

There was ample evidence that the menace was thoroughly understood, for the whole day shift was toiling at the ice, chopping it, thawing it, shoveling it away, although its tremendous thickness made their efforts seem puerile.  Everywhere there was manifested a frantic haste, a grim, strained eagerness that was full of ominous meaning.

All that day Eliza watched the unequal struggle, and in the evening Dan brought her reports that were far from reassuring.  The relentless movement showed no sign of ceasing.  When she retired that night she sought ease from her anxiety in a prayer that was half a petition for O’Neil’s success and half an exceedingly full and frank confession of her love for him.  Outside, beneath the glare of torches and hastily strung incandescents, a weary army toiled stubbornly, digging, gouging, chopping at the foot of the towering wall of timbers which stretched across the Salmon.  In the north the aurora borealis played brilliantly as if to light a council of the gods.

On the following day “Happy Tom” arrived with fifty men.

“I got the last mother’s son I could find,” he explained, as he warmed himself at O’Neil’s stove.

“Did you go to Hope?”

“I did, and I saw the splavvus, himself.”

“Gordon?”

“He’s worse than we thought.”  Tom tapped his shining forehead significantly.  “Loft to let!”

“What—­insane?”

“Nothing but echoes in his dome.  The town’s as empty as his bonnet too, and the streets are full of snow.  It’s a sight!”

“Tell me about Mrs. Gordon.”  “She’s quite a person,” said Slater, slowly.  “She surprised me.  She’s there, alone with him and a watchman.  She does all the work, even to lugging in the wood and coal—­he’s too busy to help—­but she won’t leave him.  She told me that Dan and Natalie wanted her to come over here, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it or to let them assist in any way.  Gordon spends all his time at his desk, promoting, writing ads and prospectuses.  He’s got a grand scheme.  He’s found that ’Hope Consolidated’ is full of rich ore, but the trouble is in getting it out; so he’s working on a new process of extraction.  It’s a wonderful process—­you’d never guess what it is.  He smokes it out!  He says all he needs is plenty of smoke.  That bothered him until he hit on the idea of burning feathers.  Now he’s planning to raise ducks, because they’ve got so much down.  Isn’t that the limit?  She’ll have to fit him into a padded cell sooner or later.”