“The worst is over, Breen,” he said in a voice of perfect calmness--the tone of a doctor after feeling a patient's pulse. “Our culvert is doing its work and relieving the pressure. This water will be out of here by morning. Tell the foreman to keep those planks moving wherever they do any good, but they won't count much longer. You can see the difference already in the overflow. And now go up to the house and tell Ruth. She may not know we are all right and will be worrying.” Jack's heart gave a bound. No more delightful duty could devolve on him. “What shall I tell her about the damage if she asks me, sir?” he demanded, hiding his pleasure in a perfunctory, businesslike tone, “and she will.” “Tell her it means all summer here for me and no new bonnets for her until next winter,” replied MacFarlane with a grim smile. “Yes, I suppose, but I referred to the money loss,” Jack laughed in reply. “There is no use worrying her if we are not to blame for this.” He didn't intend to worry her. He was only feeling about for some topic which would prolong his visit and encourage conversation. “If we are, it means some thousands of dollars on the wrong side of the ledger,” answered MacFarlane after a pause, a graver tone in his voice. “But don't tell Ruth that. Just give her my message about the bonnet--she will understand.” “But not if McGowan is liable,” argued Jack. If Ruth was to hear bad news it could at least be qualified. “That depends somewhat on the wording of his contract, Breen, and a good deal on whether this village wants to hold him to it. I'm not crossing any bridges of that kind, and don't you. What I'm worrying about is the number of days and nights it's going to take to patch this work so they can get trains through our tunnel--And, Breen--” “Yes, sir,” answered Jack, as he stopped and looked over his shoulder. There were wings on his feet now. “Get into some dry clothes before you come back.” While all this had been going on Ruth had stood at the window in the upper hall opposite the one banked with geraniums, too horrified to move. She had watched with the aid of her opera-glass the wild torrent rushing through the meadow, and she had heard the shouts of the people in the streets and the prolonged roar when the boulevard embankment gave way. The hurried entrance and startled cry of the grocer's boy in the kitchen below, and the loud talk that followed, made her move to the head of the stairs. There she stood listening, her heart in her mouth, her knees trembling. Such expressions as “drownded,”--“more'n a hundred of 'em--” reached her ears. Then came the words--“de boss's work busted; ain't nobody seen him alive, so dey say.” For an instant she clutched the hand rail to keep her from falling, then with a cry of terror she caught up an old cloth cape, bound a hat to her head with a loose veil, and was downstairs and into the street before the boy had reached the curb.