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She pushed to the window to get a glimpse of the sod when the lightning flamed. She imagined the plain as it would look with every cabin flattened to earth, its inmates scattered, unhoused in the scant, water-weighted grass.

As they all stood staring out, Rivers pointed and shouted to Bailey, “See that flag-pole!”

It was made of hard pine, tough and supple, but it bent in the force of the wind like a willow twig. Again and again it bowed, rose with a fling, only to be borne down again. At last it broke with a crash; the upper half, whirling down, struck the roof, opening a ragged hole through which the rain streamed in torrents.

Rivers cried, in battle alarm, “The roof is going!”

“No, it ain’t!” trumpeted Bailey, sturdily; “swing a tub up here to catch the water!”

The woman forgot her fears and aided the two men as they toiled to cover the more perishable goods with bolts of cotton cloth, while the appalling wind tore at the eaves and lashed the roof with broadsides of rain and hail, which fell in constantly increasing force, raising the roar of the storm in key, till it crackled viciously. The tempest had the voice of a ravenous beast, cheated and angry. Outside the water lay in sheets. The whole land was a river, and the shanty was like a boat beached on a bar in the swash of it.

Nothing more could be done, and so they waited, Bailey watching at the window, Blanche and Rivers standing in the centre of the room. Bailey came back once to say: “This beats anything I ever saw. There will be ruin to many a shanty out of this,” he added, as the roar began to diminish. “Nothing saved us but our ballast of pork and oil.”

“As soon as it stops, Bob, I wish you’d hitch up for me. I want to take Mrs. Burke home.”

“All right, Jim; it’s letting up now. I wonder if the storm was as bad over where the Clayton girls are?” His voice betrayed anxiety greater than he knew. Rivers looked at him indulgently and smiled at Blanche. “You’d better go and see,” he said.

As soon as it became possible to carry a light, Bailey went to the barn and brought the team to the door. Rivers helped Blanche to a seat in the wagon and drove off across the plain, leaving Bailey alone in the water-soaked store-room. After a half-hour’s work he, too, set out on a tour of exploration. The moon was shining on the plain as serenely as if only a dew had fallen. Water stood in shallow basins here and there, but the land was unmarked of the passion of lightning and of wind. Bailey walked across the level waste, straining his eyes ahead to see if the homes of his neighbors were still standing. He saw lights gleaming here and there like warning lamps of distant schooners, and when the infrequent, silent lightning flamed over the level waste, he caught glimpses of familiar shanties standing on the low swells.

He hurried forward, his feet splashing in water, too intent to turn aside. Wherever a lamp burned steadily he knew a roof still remained, and his heart grew lighter. He came at last to the object of his search. It was only a small hut, but it was to him most sacred. He knocked timidly at the door.

“Who’s there?” was the quick and startled reply.

“It’s Bailey. I’m here to see how you came through the storm.”

“Oh, Mr. Bailey!” replied Estelle. She opened the door. “Come in. We’re all right, but wet. Don’t step in the pans.”

As he entered, with eyes a little dazzled by the candle, Carrie, wrapped in a shawl, rose from the bed. “Oh, I’m glad to see a man! Wasn’t it terrible?” Pans were set about the room to catch the dripping water. The little shanty, usually so orderly and cheerful, looked dishevelled and desolate.