ce. It could
not have been the owner of the _Whatnot_, because, with his wooden leg,
he could not swim. It was not Solon, for the head had been that of a
white man. Could it have been his mother's only brother, his Uncle
Billy, the brave, merry young fellow who was to have been his raftmate?
Winn had already learned to love as well as to admire Billy Brackett,
though how much he had not known, until now that he believed him to be
gone out of his life forever.

He tried to believe that it was some one else, but in vain. The girl
whom he had just rescued was certainly Sabella, so of course the boat
that he had seen crushed like an egg-shell must have been the
_Whatnot_. Oh, if he had only been a little closer, or if the fog had
not been so thick! The boat was almost certain to have been the
_Whatnot_ though, and in that case the brave swimmer, who had missed
safety by a hair's-breadth must have been--

Here a moan diverted Winn's attention from his own unhappiness, and
caused him to spring to the side of the little girl. She opened her
eyes and looked at him. "Oh, Sabella!" he cried, "tell me who saved
you? Was it Mr. Brackett--my Uncle Billy, you know?"

"My Uncle Billy," she murmured faintly; then she again closed her eyes
wearily, and seemed to sleep.

"It was he, then; it was he!" And Winn, breaking down, sobbed aloud.
"And all my fault that he came on this trip! My fault, my fault!" he
repeated over and over again.

At length he became conscious of the selfishness of thus giving way to
his feelings while Sabella was still in such urgent need of his aid.

"I must get her to the raft at once!" he exclaimed, starting up and
looking about him. But there was no raft, nor was there any steamboat.
There was nothing but the skiff with themselves in it, a small circle
of brown water, and the fog. He had no idea of direction, not even
whether his skiff was heading up-stream or down, or drifting broadside
to the current. If the fog would only lift! It had been so kind to
him, but now was so dreadful.

The boy took off his coat, folded it, and put it under Sabella's head.
Then he sat beside her and rubbed her cold hands. He knew of nothing
else that he could do for her, and so he waited--waited for the fog to
lift or for help to come.

At length he began to hear sounds from every direction, the sound of
whistles, bells, and hundreds of other noises. He must have reached
St. Louis, and it would never do