Ruth looked over her shoulder, and was frightened at the blackness of the cloud that had gathered. There was a dense stillness, and the air was murky and hot. Almost at the moment she looked, a streak of flame darted from the cloud and a terrific peal of thunder followed immediately, showing that the storm was close on them. “Come,” he said, and, catching her bridle, Captain Allen headed her horse up the hill. “Mind the bushes. Keep him well in hand; but put him out.” Ruth urged the horse, and gave him the rein, and they dashed up the hill, Steve close at her horse’s flank. It was to be a close graze, even if they escaped at all; for the rising wind, coming in a strong blast, was beginning to rush through the woods, making the trees bend and creak. The bushes swept past her, and dragged Ruth’s hat from her head. “Keep on! I’ll get it!” called Steve, and leaning from his saddle he picked it from the ground, and in a moment was up with her again. The thunder was beginning to crash just above their heads, and as they dashed along, the air was filled with flying leaves and small boughs, and big drops were beginning to spatter on them as if driven from a gun. Ruth heard Steve’s voice, but could not, in the roar of the wind, tell what he said. The next instant he was beside her, his hand outstretched to steady her horse. She could not distinguish his words; but saw that he meant her to pull in, and she did so. The next second they were at a path which led off at an angle from that they were on. Steve turned her horse into it, and a moment later there appeared a small clearing, on the other side of which was an old cabin. That instant, however, the cloud burst upon them, and the rain came in a sheet. Before Ruth could stop her horse at the door, Steve was on the ground and had lifted her down as if she had been a child. “Run in,” he said, and it never occurred to her to oppose him. Holding both horses with one hand, Steve reached across and pushed open the door, and put her in. An old negro woman, the only occupant, was facing her, just as she had risen from her chair by the fire, her small black eyes wide with surprise at the unexpected entrance. The next moment she advanced toward Ruth. “Come in, Mistis. Is you wet?” she asked. “Thank you—why, yes—I am rather—But—” Ruth turned to the door. She was thinking of her companion, who was still out in the storm that was driving against the house. “Yes, to be sho’ you is. I’ll shet de do’.” The old negress moved to push it closer to. “No, don’t!” cried Ruth. “He is out there.” “Who? Don’t you go out dyah, Mistis.” She restrained Ruth, who was about to go out again. But the door was pushed open from the outside, and Steve, dripping wet, with a pile of broken pieces of old rails in his arms and Ruth’s saddle in his hand, came in. “Marse Steve! My chile! Fo de L—d!” exclaimed the old woman. “Ain’t you mighty wet?” She had left Ruth, and was feeling Steve’s arms and back.