down to bed rock at last."

"In other words, the cradle," she observed, pulling a little old-fashioned
trundle bed out into the light.

"Oh, what a joke!" cried Harlan. "That's worth three dollars in the office
of any funny paper in New York!"

"Sell it," commanded Dorothy, inspired by the prospect of wealth, "and
I'll give you fifty cents for your commission."

Outside, the storm still raged and the old house shook and creaked in the
blast. The rain swirled furiously against the windows, and a swift rush of
hailstones beat a fierce tattoo on the roof. Built on the summit of a hill
and with only a few trees near it, the Judson mansion was but poorly
protected from the elements.

None the less, there was a sense of warmth and comfort inside. "Let's
build a fire in the kitchen," suggested Dorothy, "and then we'll try to
find something to eat."

"Which kitchen?" asked Harlan.

"Any old kitchen. The one the back stairs end in, I guess. It seems to be
the principal one of the set."

Harlan brought more wood and Dorothy watched him build the fire with a
sense that a god-like being was here put to base uses. Hampered in his
log-cabin design by the limitations of the fire box, he handled the
kindlings awkwardly, got a splinter into his thumb, said something under
his breath which was not meant for his wife to hear, and powdered his
linen with soot from the stove pipe. At length, however, a respectable
fire was started.

"Now," he asked, "what shall I do next?"

"Wind all the clocks. I can't endure a dead clock. While you're doing it,
I'll get out the remnants of our lunch and see what there is in the pantry
that is still edible."

In the lunch basket which the erratic ramifications of the road leading to
Judson Centre had obliged them to carry, there was still, fortunately, a
supply of sandwiches and fruit. A hasty search through the nearest pantry
revealed jelly, marmalade, and pickles, a box of musty crackers and a
canister of tea. When Harlan came back, Dorothy had the kitchen table set
for two, with a lighted candle dispensing odorous good cheer from the
centre of it, and the tea kettle singing merrily over the fire.

"Seems like home, doesn't it?" he asked, pleasantly imbued with the
realisation of the home-making quality in Dorothy. Certain rare women with
this gift take their atmosphere with them wherever they go.

"To-morrow," he went on, "I'll go into the village and buy more things to
eat."

"The rul