“They are bound to know, for the ferryman will tell them that we have not crossed there.” “But they need not be told how deep the ford was, or what danger we were in. I should never, never hear the last of it from Aunt Markham if she knew.” “And she would never trust you with me again. You are right—it is best to say as little about it as possible. We will describe the ford as admirable. Now, I think I see a house yonder where we can go and dry ourselves.” They ride up to the house, which stands a little back from the road, with steep, cultivated hills rising immediately behind. A woman is seated in the door with a spinning-wheel. She stops spinning and looks at the equestrians as they pause. Charley uncovers like a cavalier. “Good-day, madam,” he says. “We have just forded the river below here and found it high—so high that this lady is very wet. Will you let her come in and dry herself?” The eyes of the spinner open wide—her countenance expresses the extreme of stolid astonishment. “You don’t mean to say that you’ve forded the river!” she says. “Well, I wonder! Why, there ain’t but one man forded there for months past—and he came near havin’ his team drowned. You see the river, it’s been awful high all summer, and they say the ford’s dreadful washed out by the big fresh last spring.” Charley and Sylvia look at each other. They feel more than ever that it is necessary they should keep the knowledge of their adventure to themselves. “May I come in and dry my clothes?” the young lady asks, with the courtesy which never fails to win courtesy from others. “I shall not be long.” “To be sure—come in,” says the woman, moving her wheel back. “Sakes!—but you _air_ wet—wet clean to your waist!” she exclaims, as Sylvia, having been lifted from her horse, comes in. “I’ll make up a fire—here, Matildy, you and Jake bring some wood—so you kin dry yourself.” Matildy and Jake—members of a band of stirring, tow-headed children—disappear immediately, but Sylvia’s mind is more bent on escaping detection than on drying herself. “Pray tell me,” she says eagerly, “have a party from the Springs passed here on their way to Paint Rock—two carriages and several people on horseback?” “No,” the woman answers, shaking her head. She has seen no such party—whereupon Sylvia darts back to the door. “They have not passed yet,” she says to Charley, “but, of course, they will before long, and they will see the horses and come in and find us, if you don’t take care. Put the horses out of sight—anywhere! I _won’t_ be found in such a plight as this!” “You kin take the horses to the stable yonder ef you’ve a mind to,” says the hostess, coming forward. “I’m sorry none o’ the boys is about fur to help you.” “Thanks—I don’t need any help,” says Charley; and, obedient to orders, he marches off, leading the two horses.