offee.

"He said that there had been so much rain on the mountains, and that
the Crusoe mines were on such a low level that there was some danger
of an inrush of water, like that which ruined the Lost Chance, before
we came here."

"I recollect hearing something about the Lost Chance," father said,
going on with his breakfast indifferently. "There may have been water
crevices in it. The accident was probably caused by them--and
neglect."

"I don't see how it could be all due to neglect," Jessie persisted.
"The miner said that the springs and rivers were all booming full,
just as they are now. People never thought of danger from the water,
because it was so often warm and dry in the valley--as it is, you
know, often, even when it is raining hard on the mountains. The miner
said that the men went on with their work in the mine, as usual,
until, one afternoon, the timbered walls of the tunnels slumped in
like so much wet sand. What had been underground passages became, in a
moment, underground rivers, for the water that had been held back and
dammed up so long just poured in in a drowning flood. He said that the
rainfall seeped through the bogs up on the mountains, and fed
underground reservoirs that held the water safely until they were
overtaxed. When that happened the water would burst out, finding an
outlet for itself in some new place. The only reason that any one of
the force of thirty men usually employed in the mine escaped was that
the accident occurred just as they were putting on a new shift. I
remember very well what he told us."

"I see that you do," father responded, with a thoughtful glance at her
earnest face, "but I reckon he rather overdid the business. These old
miners are always full of whims and forecasts; they are as
superstitious as sailors."

"What he told was not superstition; it was a fact," replied Jessie,
with unexpected logic.

Father smiled. "Well, anyway, don't you get to worrying about the Gray
Eagle, daughter. It's rather damp these days, I admit, but as safe as
this kitchen."

"Do you really think so, papa?" Jessie asked, evidently reassured.

"Well, perhaps not quite as safe," father answered, with half a smile.
"It's a good deal darker for one thing, you know, and there are
noises--"

He lapsed into that kind of listening silence that comes to one who is
striving to recall something that has been heard, not seen, or felt,
and I was about to insist upon a further elucidation