aud, and her
father a delusion and a snare. She had grown up in the belief that the
mill-dams were part of Nature's original plan, in laying the
foundations of the hills;--but it was no time to be resentful, and the
facts were against her.

"Dorothy," said Evesham, as he tucked the buffalo about her, "this is
the second time I've tried to save you from drowning, but you never
will wait! _I'm_ all ready to be a hero, but _you_ won't be a heroine."

"I'm too practical for a heroine," said Dorothy. "There! I've forgotten
my chickens."

"I'm glad of it! Those chickens were a mistake. They oughtn't to be
perpetuated."

Youth and happiness can stand a great deal of cold water; but it was
not to be expected that Rachel Barton should be especially benefited by
her night journey through the floods. Evesham waited in the hall when
he heard the door of her room open next morning. Dorothy came slowly
down the stairs; he knew by her lingering step and the softly closed
door that she was not happy.

"Mother is very sick," she answered his inquiry.

"It is like the turn of inflammation and rheumatism she had once
before. It will be very slow,--and oh! it is such suffering! Why _do_
the best women in the world have to suffer so?"

"Will you let me talk things over with you after breakfast, Dorothy?"

"Oh yes!" she said; "there is so much to do and think about. I _wish_
father _would_ come home!"

The tears came into Dorothy's eyes as she looked at him. Rest--such as
she had never known, or felt the need of till now--and strength
immeasurable, since it would multiply her own by an unknown quantity,
stood within reach of her hand, but she might not put it out! And
Evesham was dizzy with the struggle between longing and resolution.

He had braced his nerves for a long and hungry waiting, but fate had
yielded suddenly;--the floods had brought her to him,--his flotsam and
jetsam, more precious than all the guarded treasures of the earth. She
had come, with all her girlish, unconscious beguilements, and all her
womanly cares, and anxieties too. He must strive against her sweetness,
while he helped her to bear her burdens.

"Now about the boys, Dorothy," he said two hours later, as they stood
together by the fire in the low, oak-finished room at the foot of the
stairs, which was his office and book-room. The door was ajar, so
Dorothy might hear her mother's bell. "Don't you think they had better
be sent to school somewhere?"