"Hackett's dam's bust, shore!" she exclaimed in a moment.
Gillsey turned upon her one of his deprecating, toothless smiles. "'T aint a-goin' ter tech us here," said he; "but I'm powerful glad ter be outer the Gornish Camp ter night. Them chaps be a-goin' ter ketch it, blame the'r skins!"
The girl—she was a mere overgrown child of fourteen or fifteen—looked thoughtful a moment, and then darted toward the woods.
"Whar yer goin', sis?" called Gillsey, in a startled voice.
"Warn 'em!" said the girl, laconically, not stopping her pace.
"Stop! stop! Come back!" shouted her father, starting in pursuit. But the girl never paused.
"Blame the'r skins! Blame the'r skins!" murmured Gillsey to himself. Then, seeing that he was not gaining on the child, he seemed to gulp something down in his throat, and finally he shouted:—
"I'll go, sis, honest I'll go. Yer kaint do it yerself. Come back home!"
The girl stopped, turned round, and walked back, saying to her father, "They've kep' us the winter. Yer must git thar in time, dad!"
Gillsey went by the child, at a long trot, without answering, and disappeared in the woods; and at the same moment the flood went through the valley, filling it half-way up to the spot where the cabin stood.