Here she met her husband with a second horse. He forded first, carrying two children; then she and the baby were placed on the saddle, but she was too terrified to hold the reins, and clutched her baby while he led the horse through—she is always terrified of the cruel river.
Tea over, we set out homewards, with old sacks pinned round our shoulders, slopping and slipping through water and wet grass. There was no sign of the horses when we got back, but we hoped they had gone up into the bush for shelter. The wood was wet, everything dripping, and the light failing, but we managed to kindle a fire and make some soup; and then sat listening to the rumble of the avalanches and the increasing roar of the waterfalls. It was a wild night of storm and rain. We awoke, sometimes to wonder, would the old cottage stand the terrific blasts that swept down on it from the mountains?
When we got up it was late; the sun was shining, the rain had ceased; but it was too windy to think of a fire in our wide chimney, so I retired to the ruined cowshed below the rise, and managed to coax up a blaze, boil some eggs, and then carried our breakfast indoors. Showers chased each other over the mountain, which were veiled half way in mist—all their sides were seamed with waterfalls, leaping and roaring, and the river hurried by in a grey flood. We had just two compensations—the cows had gone away, and the flies too. Later it cleared somewhat; lights and shadows
