“_I_ didn't want them,” said Dorothy, anxious to defend her management. “The old hen stole her nest and she left them the day before the rain. She's making herself comfortable now in the corn-bin.” “She ought to be made an example of; that's the way of the world, however,--retribution doesn't fall always on the right shoulders. I must go now. We'll take your mother and Jimmy first, and then, if you _won't_ come, you shall let me stay with you. The mill is safe enough, anyhow.” Evesham returned with the chaise and a man, who, he insisted, should drive away old John and the cows, so that Dorothy should have less care. The mother was packed into the chaise with a vast collection of wraps, which almost obliterated Jimmy. As they started, Dorothy ran out in the rain with her mother's spectacles and the five letters, which always lay in a box on the table by her bed. Evesham took her gently by the arms and lifted her back across the puddles to the stoop. As the chaise drove off, she went back into the sitting-room and crouched on the rug, her wet hair shining in the firelight. She took out her chickens one by one and held them under her chin, with tender words and finger-touches. If September chickens have feelings as susceptible as their bodies, Dorothy's orphans must have been imperiled by her caresses. “Look here, Dorothy! Where's my trousers?” cried Shep, opening the door at the foot of the stairs. Reuby was behind him, fully arrayed in his own garment aforesaid, and carrying the bedroom candle. “Here they are--with a needle in them,” said Dorothy. “What are you getting up in the middle of the night for?” “Well, I guess it's time somebody's up. Who's that man driving off our cows?” “Goosey! It's Walter Evesham's man. He came for mother and all of us, and he's taken old John and the cows to save us so much foddering.” “Ain't we going too?” “I don't see why we should, just because there happens to be a little water in the kitchen. I've often seen it come in there before.” “Well, thee never saw anything like _this_ before--nor anybody else, either,” said Shep. “I don't care,” said Reuby, “I wish there'd come a reg'lar flood. We could climb up in the mill-loft and go sailin' down over Jordan's meadows. Wouldn't Luke Jordan open that big mouth of his to see us heave in sight about cock-crow, wing and wing, and the old tackle a-swingin'!” “Do hush!” said Dorothy. “We may have to try it yet.” “There's an awful roarin' from our window,” said Shep. “Thee can't half hear it down here. Come out on the stoop. The old ponds have got their dander up this time.” They opened the door and listened, standing together on the low step. There was, indeed, a hoarse murmur from the hills, which grew louder as they listened. “Now she's comin'! There goes the stable-door. There was only one hinge left, anyway,” said Reuby. “Mighty! Look at that wave!”