ile the heavy rain
had saturated the surface of the ground swelling the little stream
beyond the capacity of its bank. I immediately ran out of doors to make
a search for the obstruction, which, once removed, allowed the water to
pass away as before. A small clump of grass and sticks had found
lodgment, having been swept there by the unusual amount of falling rain,
and in less time than it takes to write it, the mortal remains of my
darling would have been flooded, had it not been for the warning and my
prompt response. To clean out the small amount of water which had
entered while I hastily worked at the trench was short work and soon
completed.

With these and other incidents was my life henceforth made up. For
months I spent several hours each day with pick or shovel in my hands. I
bought the adjoining cabins with the lots upon which they stood, thereby
continuing my work of thoroughly prospecting the ground, even after
finishing that upon which Olga's house stood.

Following my practice of working during the midnight hour when most
people were asleep, the indistinct noise of my pick in the frozen gravel
below the floors aroused no one; though I once overheard two belated
pedestrians outside my door wondering from what quarter the noise of the
picking and shoveling came. No light was allowed to betray my
whereabouts, as a single tallow candle placed low in my prospect hole
beneath the floor told no tales; and once hearing the sound of voices in
the street my labors instantly ceased.

After a few weeks it was whispered about the camp that strange noises
proceeded from the mysterious black cabin at midnight, and later that
the same uncanny sounds seemed further away. Only a few persons had ever
heard them, and they assured their friends that the vicinity was a good
one to keep away from at night time; the latter advice pleasing me quite
as well as it did them.

For this reason I was never disturbed; and if more and more left to
myself by my neighbors I was not displeased, as it suited my frame of
mind best to be alone with my own thoughts--and Olga.

Many months now passed. My life was a very quiet one, the most enjoyable
hours to me being the ones spent in dreaming of Olga. Gradually the fact
dawned upon me that my life was now a most selfish one. I was feeding
upon memories of dear, by-gone days, but allowing the present to slip
unimproved away. If I could arouse myself to some good purpose in life,
and take a