"It's growing,
spreading out. A cake at the right time and the right place . . ."
"But the river is falling!" Frona cried.
The ice had dropped six feet below the top of the bank, and the Baron
Courbertin marked it with a stick.
"Our man's still there, but he doesn't move."
It was clear day, and the sun was breaking forth in the north-east.
They took turn about with the glasses in gazing across the river.
"Look! Is it not marvellous?" Courbertin pointed to the mark he had
made. The water had dropped another foot. "Ah! Too bad! too bad!
The jam; there will be none!"
Jacob Welse regarded him gravely.
"Ah! There will be?" he asked, picking up hope.
Frona looked inquiringly at her father.
"Jams are not always nice," he said, with a short laugh. "It all
depends where they take place and where you happen to be."
"But the river! Look! It falls; I can see it before my eyes."
"It is not too late." He swept the island-studded bend and saw the
ice-mountains larger and reaching out one to the other. "Go into the
tent, Courbertin, and put on the pair of moccasins you'll find by the
stove. Go on. You won't miss anything. And you, Frona, start the
fire and get the coffee under way."
Half an hour after, though the river had fallen twenty feet, they found
the ice still pounding along.
"Now the fun begins.
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