This spring came the third flood. The water climbed up the bank, crept in at the door and filled the lower story of the house. They had nowhere to remove their household goods, and stored them in the garret carefully packed and went out to find a shelter in an old log house near by, used for a corn crib. Day by day they watched the house, hailed passing boats for the news of the rise and fall of the water above, always trusting the house would stand--"and it would," the mother said "(for it was a good, strong house), but for the storm." The wind came and the terrible gale that swept the valley like a tornado, with the water at its height, leveling whole towns, descended and beat upon that house and it fell. In the morning there was no house there and the waves in their fury rushed madly on. Then these little children "stood and wept on the banks of the river," and the desolation and fear in the careful mother's heart, none but herself and her God can know. They lived in the corn-crib, and it was from it they came to hail us as we passed to-day. Something had been told us of them on our downward trip, and a package had been left them at "Cave-in-Rock," which they had not received. We went over shoe-tops in mud to their rude home, to find it one room of logs, an old stone chimney, with a cheerful fire of drift-wood and a clean hearth, two wrecks of beds, a table, and two chairs, which some kind neighbor had loaned. The Government boats had left them rations. There was an air of thrift, even in their desolation, a plank walk was laid about the door, the floor was cleanly swept, and the twenty-five surviving hens, for an equal number was lost in the storm, clucked and craiked comfortably about the door, and there were two and a half dozen fresh eggs to sell us at a higher rate than paid in town. We stood, as we had done so many scores of times during the last few weeks, and looked this pitiful scene in the face. There was misfortune, poverty, sorrow, want, loneliness, dread of future, but fortitude, courage, integrity and honest thrift. "Would she like to return to the childhood home in Indiana?" we asked the mother, for we would help them go. "No," she said tenderly. "My husband lived and died here. He was buried here, and I would not like to go away and leave him alone. It won't be very long, and it is a comfort to the children to be able to visit his grave. No, I reckon we will stay here, and out of the wreck of the old house which sticks up out of the mud, we will put another little hut, higher up in the bank out of the way of the floods, and if it is only a hut, it will be a home for us and we will get into it." There were no dry eyes, but very still hearts, while we listened to this sorrowful but brave little speech, made with a voice full of tears. Our thoughtful field agent, Dr. Hubbell, was the first to speak.