“If you are sure there is no possibility of our crossing Laurel,” he says, “can you tell me any house within a moderate distance where we can spend the night?” “Eric!” cries Aunt Markham again. The prospect of spending the night in any one of the houses which are found commonly through the country is nearly as appalling as the idea of being drowned. But Eric knows what is best for us, and goes on inflexibly: “I must find some shelter for these ladies,” he says. “Where is the nearest house?” “About a mile back,” the other answers. “You can get accommodation there, I expect. It’s the house of a friend of mine. There’s no other that I know of nearer than five or six miles.” “John, turn the carriage as soon as you put in the horses,” says our commanding officer. “Charley, ride forward and see that Harrison does the same with the wagon.” So it is settled. John turns the carriage—a dangerous matter this, on the narrow road—then we crowd in and shield ourselves as well as we can from the driving rain that comes in our faces in sheets of spray. So we start back. But our progress is slow. Streams that were rivulets an hour before are leaping torrents now, with currents so strong and swift that it is as much as our horses can do to pull us through. Once the danger seems so imminent that we may be swept into the river, Aunt Markham utters a scream. Sylvia only clasps my hand tightly, and when we reach the bank in safety, she says, “What must Laurel be!” All our fancy for adventurous camping-out is dissipated by the blinding, soaking rain. We feel that any shelter will be welcome, no matter how rough it may be. And the shelter to which we presently come is very rough. Yet the house has plainly seen better days. It is a two-story frame building—once, no doubt, a well-kept farm-house—situated a little back from the road. Two or three men are seated in the piazza. One comes forward, and when Eric says, “Can you take us in for the night?” answers, with a doubtful glance at our number, “Well, I reckin so.” We do not wait for the slow assent to spring out and take refuge in the piazza. Then we utter a long sigh of relief. After all, it is pleasant to have a roof over one’s head! Our host leads us into a large, barn-like room, with several smaller ones opening from it. “I’ll kindle some fire in a minute for you to dry yourselves,” he says. We certainly stand in need of drying. Mermaids could scarcely be more wet. Wherever we stand or sit, a pool of water soon settles. We take off our water-proofs and shawls and stretch them on chairs, laughing the while at our plight. Aunt Markham plainly thinks this mirth very ill-timed. She looks round with a shudder as she sits, majestic and dripping, in the middle of the room—but she says nothing. Words are too weak to express her feelings.