From the middle of November onwards, the river had been running nearly bank-high, and so much power was available that Thrale had been considering the possibility of lighting some of the nearer houses by electricity. He had made three journeys to London, and with half a dozen assistants he had rifled two dynamos from the power station just outside Paddington, and had brought back twenty truck-loads of coal. The dynamos, however, were still in the truck, covered by tarpaulin. Thrale had decided that the luxury of artificial lighting could not be provided until all the grain had been thrashed and milled. The end of that work was now in sight, and the accumulated wealth of flour in Marlow was calculated to be sufficient to last the community for at least twelve months. But before the lighting scheme could be put in hand, a new trouble had threatened. During the first week of December there was almost continuous rain, and the river began to top its banks, spreading itself over the meadowland below the lock and creeping up the end of St Peter's Street. No serious matter as yet, and a short spell of frost and clear skies followed; but before Christmas heavy rains came again, and Thrale began to grow anxious. "The weirs down-stream ought to be opened," he explained to Eileen. "They are probably all up; we need never be afraid of shortage here; if we close our own weir we can always hold up all the water we want." "Is it serious?" she asked. "Not yet, but it may be," he said, looking up at the sky. "All Marlow might be flooded." And still the rain fell, and soon the girls had to wade through a foot of water to reach the mill. "I must go down-stream and open all the weirs," Thrale announced on Christmas Eve. "I've been looking at a steam launch over at the boat-house; it's in quite good condition. I shall bring it up to the town landing-stage to-morrow and get enough coal and food aboard to last a week." "You're not going alone?" said Eileen. "No! I must take some one to work the engine and the locks," returned Thrale. "I'll come!" announced Eileen, with glee. Thrale shook his head. "You'll have to run this place," he said. Since that night in September no reference had been made by either of them to his strange revelation of fear. They had worked together as two men might have worked. Neither of them had exhibited the least consciousness of sex. Thrale believed that he had put the fear away from him, and Eileen was content to wait. She was barely twenty. "Blanche could run the mill," she suggested. "There isn't much to do now." Thrale turned away from her with a touch of impatience. "Blanche had better come with me," he said. "I want to come," pleaded Eileen. "Why?" he asked. "It'll be sport." "I don't care to trust Blanche with the mill," he persisted. "She's every bit as good as I am," was her reply. He shook his head.