“He had filled the reservoir too full,” Hilda said, in her grating voice. “I can’t imagine why he did such a ridiculous thing when he knew the rain was coming. And then there was some trouble about the flood-gate. It would not act properly. That is how it has occurred: at least so he told me. Day after day he put off looking after that flood-gate, until it was too late. I am dreadfully sorry about it all, but I cannot think why he did not take proper precautions. I would not say that to him, of course, but it seems to me that it might have been prevented if--” “If Bob had not been utterly worn out,” said Ben, brusquely. “Well, it is altogether most unfortunate,” she said indifferently. Ben glanced at her keenly, scarcely knowing how to control his indignation at her cold criticism of his friend. He was trying to make out what manner of woman she really was, trying to divine what kind of heart she had, and what degree of intelligence; for she apparently did not realise the seriousness of the disaster, and talked of it as though it were something outside her, in the consequences of which she had no part. “I scarcely think this is the moment for criticism,” he said suddenly; “it is the moment for generous sympathy. Bob will need everything we can give him of help and kindness.” “Do you suppose I don’t know that?” she asked coldly. “Do you imagine that I am intending to make things harder for him? What do you suppose I am?” “I suppose you are what you are,” Ben answered, in his quiet deliberate way, “a new-comer to California, ignorant of our lives out here, our struggles, our weeks and months and years of unaccustomed toil, and our great anxieties, and our great disasters. Your ranch is practically ruined. All those trees would have borne splendid lemons next year. Bob has tended them with special care. Now they are swept away. The part of your ranch which is left uninjured by the bursting of the reservoir, is the newly planted part. About two or three months ago, I myself helped Bob to put in the trees. Now he will have to begin all over again. And it is just crushing.” He paused for a moment, and even in the midst of his exasperation at her indifference, and in spite of his sympathy with Bob, he felt a rush of kindly feeling towards her. There she was amongst them in a foreign land, with none of her own people and none of her former interests,--no, she had not come out to anything very cheerful: and at twenty-four, and three weeks married, one has a right to expect some satisfaction out of life. “But I am not a very gay companion,” he said, with sudden cheeriness. “You have had enough sadness for one day, and here am I doing my level best to add to it. Holles always says that if I had chosen, I could have written an admirable Book of Lamentations.” “He is a most amusing boy,” Hilda said, smiling in spite of herself.