s 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.

As the chaise drove off, she went back to the sitting-room and crouched
on the rug, her wet hair shining in the firelight. She took out her
chickens one by one and held them under her chin, with tender words and
finger-touches. If September chickens have hearts as susceptible as
their bodies, Dorothy's orphans must have been imperilled by her
caresses.

"Look here, Dorothy! Where's my trowsers?" cried Shep, opening the door
at the foot of the stairs.

Reuby was behind him, fully arrayed in the aforesaid articles, and
carrying the bedroom candle.

"Here they are--with a needle in them," said