While her guest, with a few words of thanks, accepted and disposed of the refreshments, Mrs. Smiley sat and gazed at the fire in her turn. The little cottage trembled, the windows rattled, the storm roared without, and--yes, the water actually lapped against the house! She started, turning to the door. The wind was driving the flood in under it. She felt a chill run through her flesh. "Mr. Chillis, the water is really coming into the house!" "Yes, I reckoned that it would," returned the old man, calmly, rising from the table and returning to the hearth. "That is the nicest supper I've had for these dozen years; and it has done me good, too. I was a little wore out with pullin' over the bay, agin the wind." Mrs. Smiley looked at him curiously, and then at the water splashing in under the door. He understood her perfectly. "A wettin' wouldn't hurt you, though it would be disagreeable, an' I should be sorry to have you put to that inconvenience. But the wind _and_ the water may unsettle the foundation o' your house, the chimney bein' on the outside, an' no support to it. Even that would not certainly put you in danger, as the frame would likely float. But I knew, ef sech a thing should happen, an' you here alone, you would be very much frightened, an' perhaps lose your life a-tryin' to save it." "And you came up from the landing in all this storm to take care of me?" Mrs. Smiley exclaimed, with flushing cheeks. "I came all the way from Astoria to do it," answered Chillis, looking at the new-blown roses of her face. "And Eben----" She checked herself, and fixed her eyes upon the hearth. "He thought there was no danger, most likely." "Mr. Chillis, I can never thank you!" she cried, fervently, as she turned to glance at the sleeping child. "White Rose," he answered, under his breath, "I don't want any thanks but those I've got." Then, aloud to her: "You might have some blankets ready, in case we are turned out o' the house. The fire will be 'most sure to be put out, any way, an' you an' the boy will be cold."