is, that the foundations are as low as the ordinary
level of the water in the pond, and the ground at that depth is of large
gravel: it seems to me that the water gets through to the house. I
should propose, therefore, that from the bank of the Lythe a tunnel be
commenced, rising at a gentle incline until it pierces the basin of the
lake. The ground is your own to the river, I believe?"

"It is," answered Dorothy. "But I should be sorry to empty the lake
altogether."

"My scheme," returned Polwarth, "includes a strong sluice, by which you
could keep the water at what height you pleased, and at any moment send
it into the river. The only danger would be of cutting through the
springs; and I fancy they are less likely to be on the side next the
river where the ground is softer, else they would probably have found
their way directly into it, instead of first hollowing out the pond."

"Would it be a difficult thing to do?" asked Dorothy.

"I think not," answered Polwarth. "But with your permission I will get a
friend of mine, an engineer, to look into it."

"I leave it in your hands," said Dorothy.--"Do you think we will find
any thing at the bottom?"

"Who can tell? But we do not know how near the bottom the tunnel may
bring us; there may be fathoms of mud below the level of the
river-bed.--One thing, thank God, we shall not find there!"

The same week all was arranged with the engineer. By a certain day his
men were to be at work on the tunnel.

For some time now, things had been going on much the same with all in
whom my narrative is interested. There come lulls in every process,
whether of growth or of tempest, whether of creation or destruction, and
those lulls, coming as they do in the midst of force, are precious in
their influence--because they are only lulls, and the forces are still
at work. All the time the volcano is quiet, something is going on below.
From the first moment of exhaustion, the next outbreak is preparing. To
be faint is to begin to gather, as well as to cease to expend.

Faber had been growing better. He sat more erect on his horse; his eye
was keener, his voice more kindly, though hardly less sad, and his step
was firm. His love to the child, and her delight in his attentions, were
slowly leading him back to life. Every day, if but for a moment, he
contrived to see her, and the Wingfolds took care to remove every
obstacle from the way of their meeting. Little they thought why Dorothy
le