These deaths had been a severe blow to both my father and myself. To me my mother had been all that such a kind and loving parent can be, and my sisters had been my only playmates. My father and I were not left long to mourn. There were heavy bills to be met, and we worked night and day to get out of debt. At length came the time when all was free and clear, and we were nearly two hundred dollars ahead. Then my father got it into his mind that he could do better in some new Western place; and he left to be gone at least three months. For a time all worked smoothly. I had for a helper a young man named Daniel Ford, a hearty, whole-souled fellow, and we got along splendidly together; but one night an accident happened. The raceway to the mill was an old one, and a heavy rain-storm increased the volume of water to such an extent that it was partly carried away. I had the damage repaired at once; but the cost was such that it threw us once more into debt, and made it necessary for me to purchase groceries from Mr. Jackson on credit. This I hated to do, knowing well the mean spirit of the man. But his store was the only one on this side of Rock Island Lake where my father was in the habit of purchasing, and I had to submit. “Humph! seems to me old Jackson is mighty sharp after his money,” observed Ford, who was at work in the mill, and had overheard our conversation. “If Mr. Carnet pays up I won’t keep him waiting.” I replied. “I suppose he’s entitled to his money.” “If I was in your place I’d make him wait. I wouldn’t take any such talk without making him suffer for it. Do you want to load these bags on the boat now?” “Yes; sixteen of them.” Getting out the wheelbarrow, the young fellow piled it high with the bags of middlings, and carted them down to the sloop that was tied to the wharf that jutted out into the lake. It was only a short distance, and the job was soon finished. “Now I’m off,” I said, as I prepared to leave. “You know what to do if anything comes in while I’m gone.” “Oh, yes.” “And in the meanwhile you can get that flour ready for Jerry Moore.” “I will.” I jumped aboard the sloop, unfastened the painter, hoisted the mainsail, and stood out for the other shore. A stiff breeze was blowing, and I was soon well underway. Rock Island Lake was a beautiful sheet of water, four miles wide by twelve long. Near its upper end was a large island covered with rough rocks, bushes, and immense pine-trees. On one side of it was the thriving town of Bayport; and opposite, the village of Bend Center, situated a mile below the Torrent Bend River, which emptied into the lake at the spot where my father had located his mill. The two resident places were in sharp contrast to each other. Bend Center was a sleepy spot that had not increased in population for twenty years, while Bayport, which had been settled but fifteen years, was all life and activity.