"I was there quite long enough. Shep pulled me out; I was too tired to help myself much." Dorothy held her palm pressed against her temple, and the blood trickled from beneath, streaking her pale, wet cheek. "He's gone to the house to get me a cloak. I don't want mother to see me--not yet," she said. "I'm afraid you ought not to wait, Dorothy. Let me take you to the house, won't you? I'm afraid you'll get a deadly chill." Dorothy did not look in the least like death. She was blushing now, because Evesham would think it so strange of her to stay, and yet she could not rise in her wet clothes, which clung to her like the calyx to a bud. "Let me see that cut, Dorothy, _please_!" "Oh, it's nothing. I don't _wish_ thee to look at it!" "But I will! Do you want to make me your murderer--sitting there in your wet clothes, with a cut on your head?" He drew away her hand, and the wound, indeed, was no great affair, but he bound it up deftly with strips of his handkerchief. Dorothy's wet curls touched his fingers and clung to them, and her eyelashes drooped lower and lower. "I think it was _very_ stupid of thee. Didn't thee hear us from the dam? I'm sure we made noise enough." "Yes, I heard you when it was too late. I heard the sheep before, but how could I imagine that _you_, Dorothy, and three boys, as big as cockerels, were sheep-washing? It's the most preposterous thing I ever heard of!" "Well, I can't help being a woman, and the sheep had to be washed. I think there ought to be more men in the world when half of them are preaching and fighting." "If you'd only let the men who are left help you a little, Dorothy!" "I don't want any help. I only _don't_ want to be washed into the mill-head." They both laughed, and Evesham began again entreating her to let him take her to the house. "Hasn't thee a coat or something I could put around me until Shep comes?" said Dorothy. "He must be here soon." "Yes, I've got a jacket here somewhere." He sped away to find it, and faithless Dorothy, as the willows closed between them, sprang to her feet and fled like a startled Naiad to the house. When Evesham, pushing through the willows, saw nothing but the bed of wet, crushed ferns and the trail through the long grass where Dorothy's feet had fled, he smiled grimly to himself, remembering that "ewe-lambs" are not always as meek as they look. That evening Rachel had received a letter from Friend Barton, and was preparing to read it aloud to the children. They were in the kitchen, where the boys had been helping Dorothy, in a desultory manner, to shell corn for the chickens; but now all was silence, while Rachel wiped her glasses and turned the large sheet of paper, squared with many foldings, to the candle. She read the date, "London Grove, 5th month, 22nd.--Most affectionately beloved." "He means us all," said Rachel, turning to the children with a tender smile. "It's spelled with a small b."