“Yes, father,” I said; “but we weren’t half so hungry.”
My remark brought the first smile I had seen to his lip for hours.
“Yes, yes; I know,” he said; “but patience. I think we shall soon see the water begin to fall, for when I was at the settlement yesterday, the tide was turning and going down about this time. If it does not take with it the inundation, we must divide ourselves into two parties, one to sit and watch while the other sleeps. By to-morrow the flood will either have fallen, or help will have come.”
“Sleep, father!” I said, dolefully; “who can sleep at a time like this?”
“All of us, I hope,” he said. “We shall easily drop off after our past night’s watch.”
“But who could go to sleep feeling so hungry as this?” I protested.
“You,” he said, smiling; “and recollect the French proverb, Qui dort dine. You know what that means.”
“No, father,” I said, dolefully.
“Shame! You should not forget your French. He who sleeps dines, my boy.”
“Perhaps that’s so in France, father, but it isn’t so here, in the midst of a flood, and I don’t think any Frenchman would say so if he were up in this tree like we are now.”