"Oh, that's ruined!" he replied.
So we did not attempt to save any of it, but got hold of his trunk and carried that on shore.
When we returned, we found that the water was pouring through his partition, making the room a lake of mud. And, as the water was rising rapidly below, and the boat was keeling over more and more, we thought it was time to leave, and we left.
It would not do to go far away from our possessions, which were piled up in a sad-looking heap on the shore; and so, after I had gone over to the milk-woman's to assure Euphemia of our safety, the boarder and I passed the rest of the night—there was not much of it left—in walking up and down the beach, smoking some cigars which he fortunately had in his pocket.
In the morning I took Euphemia to the hotel—about a mile away—and arranged for the storage of our furniture there, until we could find another habitation. This habitation, we determined, was to be a substantial house, or part of a house, which should not be affected by the tides.
During the morning the removal of our effects was successfully accomplished, and our boarder went to town to look for a furnished room. He had nothing but his trunk to take to it.
In the afternoon I left Euphemia at the hotel, where she was taking a nap (she certainly needed it, for she had spent the night in a wooden rocking-chair at the milk-woman's), and I strolled down to the river to take a last look at the remains of old Rudder Grange.
I felt sadly enough as I walked along the well-worn path to the canal-boat, and thought how it would have been worn by my feet more than any other's, and how gladly I had walked that way so often during that
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