He began--worse comfort--to consider his police work from a daughter's point of view. Alas for himself and Nancy! His idyl of the ditch was shattered like the tender sky-reflections that bloomed on its still waters, and vanished when the waters were troubled. His own thoughts were as that roily pool where he had ducked the old man in the darkness. He overslept himself, after thinking he should not sleep at all, and started down his beat not until noon of the next day. Halfway to the bridge on the ditch-bank he met Nancy Lark. She gave him a note, which he dismounted to take, she vouchsafing no greeting, not even a look, and standing apart while he read it, with the air of a martyr to duty. Mr. Travis [the letter ran],--I am a death-struck man in consequence of your outrageous treatment of me last evening. I've took a dum chill, and it has hit me in the vitals through standing in water up to my armpits. If you think your fool ditch is worth more than a Human's life, though your company's enemy, that's for you to settle as you can when the time comes you'll have to. I don't ask any favors. But if you got anny desency left in you through working for that fish-livered company of bondholders coming out here to stomp us farmers into the dirt, you will call this bizness quits. I aint in no shape to fight ditches no more. You have put me where I be, and the less said on both sides the better, it looks to me. If that's so you can say so by word or writing. I should prefer writing as I aint got that confidence I might have. Yours truly, SOLOMON LARK. “Miss Nancy,” said Travis gently, “is your father very sick this morning?” “I don't know,” Nancy replied. “Have you sent for a doctor?” “He won't let me.” “Have you read this letter?” She flashed an indignant look at him. “I wish you would, then.” “It is not my letter. I don't know what's in it, and I don't care to know.” “Do you know what your father was doing in the ditch last night?” “Helping you to mend it, at the risk of his life, because you made him,” Nancy answered quickly. “Helping to mend a hole he made himself, so there would be a nice little break in the morning.” The subject rested there, till Travis, forced to take the defensive, asked:-- “Do you believe me?” “Believe what?” “What I have just told you about your father?” “Oh,” she said, “it makes no difference to me. I knew my father pretty well before I ever saw you. If you think he was doing that, why, I suppose you will have to think so. But even if he was, I don't call that any reason you should half drown him, and make him work himself to death beside.” “But the water was warm! And I did the work. What was it to tread dirt for an hour or so on a summer's night? Wasn't he in the ditch when I found him?” “I don't know, I'm sure,” said Nancy. “I know that you kept him there.”