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“He raised the flood-gates at noon,” Dorothy said to herself. “I wonder if he is anxious about the dams.” She resolved to watch for his return, but she was busy settling her mother for the night when she heard his footsteps on the porch. The roar of water from the hills startled Dorothy as she opened the door;–it had increased in violence within an hour. A gust of wind and rain followed Evesham into the entry.

“Come in,” she said, running lightly across the sitting-room to close the door of her mother’s room.

He stood opposite her on the hearth-rug and looked into her eyes across the estrangement of the summer. It was not Dorothy of the mill-head, or of Slocum’s meadow, or the cold maid of the well: it was a very anxious, lovely little girl, in a crumbling old house, with a foot of water in the cellar, and a sick mother in the next room. She had forgotten about Ephraim and his idols; she picked up Shep’s trowsers from the rug, where she had dropped them, and looking intently at her thimble finger, told him she was very glad he had come.

“Did you think I wouldn’t come?” said he. “I’m going to take you home with me, Dorothy,–you and your mother and the boys. It’s not fit for you to be here alone!”

“Do you know of any danger?”

“I know of none, but water’s a thing you can’t depend on. It’s an ugly rain; older men than your father remember nothing like it.”

“I shall be glad to have mother go, and Jimmy;–the house is very damp. It’s an awful night for her to be out, though!”

“She must go!” said Evesham. “You must all go. I’ll be back in half an hour–“

” I shall not go,” Dorothy said; “the boys and I must stay and look after the stock.”

“What’s that?” Evesham was listening to a trickling of water outside the door.

“Oh! it’s from the kitchen! The door’s blown open, I guess!”

Dorothy looked out into the passage; a strong wind was blowing in from the kitchen, where the water covered the floor and washed against the chimney.

“This is a nice state of things! What’s all this wood here for?”

“The wood-shed’s under water, you know.”

“You must get yourself ready, Dorothy! I’ll come for your mother first in the chaise.”

“I cannot go,” she said; “I don’t believe there is any danger. This old house has stood for eighty years; it’s not likely this is the first big rain in all that time.” Dorothy’s spirits had risen. “Besides, I have a family of orphans to take care of! See here,” she said, stooping over a basket in the shadow of the chimney. It was the “hospital tent,” and as she uncovered it, a brood of belated chickens stretched out their thin necks with plaintive peeps.

Dorothy covered them with her hands, and they nestled with cozy twitterings into silence.

“You’re a kind of special providence, aren’t you, Dorothy? But I’ve no sympathy with chickens who will be born just in time for the equinoctial.”

” I didn’t want them,” said Dorothy, anxious to defend her management. “The old hen stole her nest, and she left them the day before the rain. She’s making herself comfortable now in the corn-bin.”

“She ought to be made an example of;–that’s the way of the world, however;–retribution don’t fall always on the right shoulders. I must go now. We’ll take your mother and Jimmy first, and then, if you won’t come, you shall let me stay with you. The mill is safe enough, anyhow.”

Evesham returned with the chaise and a man who he insisted should drive away old John and the cows, so Dorothy should have less care. The mother was packed into the chaise with a vast collection of wraps, which almost obliterated Jimmy. As they started, Dorothy ran out in the rain with her mother’s spectacles and the five letters, which always lay in a box on the table by her bed. Evesham took her gently by the arms and lifted her back across the puddles to the stoop.