“He raised the flood-gates at noon,” Dorothy said to herself. “I wonder if he is anxious about the dams.” She resolved to watch for his return, but she was busy settling her mother for the night when she heard his footsteps on the porch. The roar of water from the hills startled Dorothy as she opened the door; it had increased in violence within an hour. A gust of wind and rain followed Evesham into the entry. “Come in,” she said, running lightly across the sitting-room to close the door of her mother's room. He stood opposite her on the hearth-rug and looked into her eyes, across the estrangement of the summer. It was not Dorothy of the mill-head, or of Slocum's meadow, or the cold maid of the well; it was a very anxious, lonely little girl in a crumbling old house, with a foot of water in the cellar and a sick mother in the next room. She had forgotten about Ephraim and his idols; she picked up Shep's trousers from the rug, where she had dropped them, and, looking intently at her thimble finger, told him she was very glad that he had come. “Did you think I would not come?” said he. “I'm going to take you home with me, Dorothy,--you and your mother and the boys. It's not fit for you to be here alone.” “Does thee know of any danger?” “I know of none, but water's a thing you can't depend on. It's an ugly rain; older men than your father remember nothing like it.” “I shall be glad to have mother go, and Jimmy; the house is very damp. It's an awful night for her to be out, though.” “She _must_ go!” said Evesham. “You must all go. I'll be back in half an hour”-- “_I_ shall not go,” Dorothy said; “the boys and I must stay and look after the stock.” “What's that?” Evesham was listening to a trickling of water outside the door. “Oh! it's from the kitchen. The door has blown open, I guess.” Dorothy looked out into the passage; a strong wind was blowing in from the kitchen, where the water covered the floor and washed against the chimney. “This is a nice state of things! What's all this wood here for?” “The woodshed's under water.” “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 comfortable 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.”