A few mad plunges, another wrench, which pitched ’Lina headlong against the window, and the steep, shelving bank was reached, but in endeavoring to climb it the carriage was upset, and ’Lina found herself in pitchy darkness, her mouth and nostrils filled with the soft mud, which, at first, prevented her screaming, and herself wet to her neck with the rushing water. Perfectly sobered now, Cæsar extricated her as soon as possible, and carrying her up the bank placed her upon her feet beneath a tree, whose leafless branches but poorly shielded her from the rain. The carriage was broken—one wheel was off entirely, he said, and thus there was no alternative save for ’Lina to walk the remaining distance home. It was not far, for the scene of the disaster was within sight of Spring Bank, but to ’Lina, bedraggled with mud and wet to the skin, it seemed an interminable distance, and her strength was giving out just as she reached the piazza, and called on her mother for help, sobbing hysterically as she repeated her story, but dwelling most upon her ruined dress. “What will Hugh say? It was not paid for either. Oh dear, I most wish I was dead!” she moaned, as her mother removed one by one the saturated garments. The sight of Hugh called forth her grief afresh, and forgetful of her dishabille, she staggered toward him, and impulsively winding her arms around his neck sobbed out, “Oh, Hugh, I’ve had such a doleful time. I’ve been in the creek, the carriage is broken, the horses are lamed, Cæsar is drunk, and—and—oh, Hugh, I’ve spoiled my dress!” The last came gaspingly, as if this were the straw too many, the crowning climax of the whole, the loss which ’Lina most deplored. Surely here was a list of disasters for which Hugh, with his other trouble, was not prepared. But amid it all there was a glimmer of light, and Hugh’s great, warm heart seized it eagerly. ’Lina’s arms were round his neck, ’Lina’s tears were on his cheek, ’Lina herself had turned to him for comfort, and he would not withhold it. Laughing merrily he held her off at a little distance, likening her to a mermaid fresh from the sea, and succeeding at last in quieting her until she could give a more concise account of the catastrophe. “Never mind the dress,” he said, good humoredly, as she kept recurring to that. “It isn’t as if it were new. An old thing is never so valuable.” “Yes; but, Hugh—you don’t know—oh, dear, dear,” and ’Lina, who had meant to tell the whole, broke down again, while Hugh rejoined, “Of course I don’t know—just how a girl feels to spoil a pretty dress, but I wouldn’t cry so hard. You shall have another some time,” and in his generous heart the thought arose, that the first money he got should be appropriated to the purchase of a new dress in place of the one whose loss ’Lina so loudly bewailed.