It crashed through the gate, swept across the garden and broke at their feet, sending a thin sheet of water over the floor of the porch. “Now it's gone into the entry. Why didn't thee shut the door, Shep?” “Well, I think we'd better clear out, anyhow. Let's go over to the mill. Say, Dorothy, shan't we?” “Wait. There comes another wave.” The second onset was not so violent; but they hastened to gather together a few blankets, and the boys filled their pockets with cookies, with a delightful sense of unusualness and peril almost equal to a shipwreck or an attack by Indians. Dorothy took her unlucky chickens under her cloak, and they made a rush all together across the road and up the slope to the mill. “Why didn't we think to bring a lantern?” said Dorothy, as they huddled together on the platform of the scale. “Will thee go back after one, Shep?” “If Reuby'll go, too.” “Well, _my_ legs are wet enough now. What's the use of a lantern? Mighty Moses! What's that?” “The old mill's got under way,” cried Shep. “_She's_ going to tune up for Kingdom Come.” A furious head of water was rushing along the race; the great wheel creaked and swung over, and with a shudder the old mill awoke from its long sleep. The cogs clenched their teeth, the shafting shook and rattled, the stones whirled merrily round. “Now she goes it!” cried Shep, as the humming increased to a tremor, and the tremor to a wild, unsteady din, till the timbers shook and the bolts and windows rattled. “I just wish father could hear them old stones hum.” “Oh, this is awful!” said Dorothy. She was shivering and sick with terror at this unseemly midnight revelry of her grandfather's old mill. It was as if it had awakened in a fit of delirium, and given itself up to a wild travesty of its years of peaceful work. Shep was creeping about in the darkness. “Look here! We've got to stop this clatter somehow. The stones are hot now. The whole thing'll burn up like tinder if we can't chock her wheels.” “Shep! Does thee _mean_ it?” “Thee'll see if I don't. Thee won't need any lantern either.” “Can't we break away the race?” “Oh, there's a way to stop it. There's the tip-trough, but it's downstairs and we can't reach the pole.” “I'll go,” said Dorothy. “It's outside, thee knows. Thee'll get awful wet, Dorothy.” “Well, I'd just as soon be drowned as burned up. Come with me to the head of the stairs.” They felt their way hand in hand in the darkness, and Dorothy went down alone. She had forgotten about the “tip-trough,” but she understood its significance. In a few moments a cascade shot out over the wheel, sending the water far into the garden. “Right over my chrysanthemum bed,” sighed Dorothy. The wheel swung slower and slower, the mocking tumult subsided, and the old mill sank into sleep again. There was nothing now to drown the roaring of the floods and the steady drive of the storm.