"Did you take occasion to notice dat w'ite hair against dat yo'ng face? An' dey say he never mention his trouble." "I tell you, like we said, Adolphe, dat river she is--she is--" He threw up his right palm, as if in despair of adequate language. "_T'ink_ of coming home from de war, already robbed, to find _all_ gone--home, wife, child, family, servants, _all_ obliterate', an' only de river's mark, green mold an' mildew, on de walls above de mantel in de house; an' outside her still face under de sky to answer, an' she heed no questions. She is called de father of waters? In a sense, yas, may_be_. _Mais_, no. She is, I tell you, de mother of trouble--_an'_ pleasure, too. "She is, after all, de queen of dis valley, an' no mistake--dat river. When she need fresh ermine for her robe, she throw it over our cotton fields--" "Yas, an' de black spots, dey are our sorrows. Dat's not a bad resemblance, no." The speaker looked at his watch. "Pas' eleven," he said. "Da' 's good luck w'en she start to fall befo' midnight. Oh-h-h! _Mais_ she is one great coquette, yas. She keep you crazy until she get tired wid you, an' den she slip away an' steal her beauty-sleep befo' de clock strike twelve." "You t'ink she is going to sleep now? May_be_ she fool us yet, Adolphe." "Well, may_be_. _Mais_ I have great hope. She _beg_in to nod, and w'en dat happen to a woman or a riv--" Conversation was suddenly interrupted here by a great crash. The two men started, and, turning, saw an entire section of the improvised embankment fall landward. Had the stress of the moment been less, they would involuntarily have hastened to the spot, but terror fixed them where they stood. There was but a moment of suspense,--of almost despair,--but it seemed an eternity, before relief came in a great shout which sent vibrations of joy far along the bank, even to those who watched and worked on the right bank of the stream. It had been only a "dry break." The weights thrown in upon the cotton had been out of plumb, and had pitched the whole structure inward. The uproar following this accident was long and loud, and had not subsided when the bell rang again, and, with tense nerves strained to listen, the line of men dropped speech. Instead of calling out the decreasing depth, as usual, the crier this time shouted: "_Two inches down, thank God!_" Screams of joy, not unmixed with tears, greeted this announcement. The strain was virtually over. The two rich men who had stood and talked together mopped their foreheads and shook hands in silence. Finally it was the older, whom we have called Adolphe,--which was not his name any more than was his companion's Felix,--finally, then, Adolphe remarked quite calmly, as he looked at his watch: