She took a hoe from behind the door and ran out into the rain. In a moment her hat was blown away, her clothes were soaked and water was streaming down her face. She struggled valiantly with the torrents that were pouring through the garden. At first she was slow and awkward, but presently she gained skill by experiment so that she could open channels where they were most needed and could forestall the cutting of cruel gashes all across the rows of the best vegetables. Energy and good will she had in plenty and with abundance of these she toiled, wet, muddy, slipping in the crumbling soil, thinking sometimes that she was beaten but still fighting desperately to rescue what she could. At last slowly, very slowly, the struggle turned from a losing battle to a winning one, the proper ditches were made and maintained, the rain softened from a deluge to a quiet shower, the water flowed harmlessly away between the corn and the cabbages and Betsey stopped to draw breath and survey what she had done. The peas and onions showed unbroken rows, the beans had been little damaged, the bulk of the garden’s crop had been saved. It was only then that she realized how excited she had been and how wet and weary she was. She jumped with startled suddenness when a voice spoke behind her. “You’ve done that none so bad,” it said slowly. “There’s not many that’s so willing to keep a garden from being ruined by the rain and fewer yet would have the wits to know how.” She turned to see Michael Martin sitting on an upturned bucket, smoking calmly away at his stump of a black pipe, rain dripping from the rim of his battered hat. “I remembered seeing you carry off the rain in the same way last week,” Betsey answered, “so I thought I’d try it myself. But I didn’t know that you were anywhere near.” “That was but an April shower,” he rejoined, “such as a stiff old man could get the better of, but I’ve known this long time that I wasn’t able any more to fight one of these unseasonable thunderstorms. The ground here lies well for the sun but ill for the rain, as I’m always telling Miss Miranda. She’ll be glad and thankful that you have saved her crop! And how it did rain, as though it were Saint Swithin’s Day itself!” “And how long have you been sitting there?” demanded Betsey. “You might at least have told me what to do.” “I came out thinking to try what I could myself, but when I saw you at the work, I could tell that you knew what you were about, so where was the use of wasting any words. I just waited in case you needed any help, but you managed better alone than with an old man to hinder. I’ve no doubt that your hands are blistered and that you’ll find your back aching to-morrow, but you have saved the garden. It will be something Miss Reynolds will be glad to hear when she comes home.” “Is she coming soon? Where did she go?” Elizabeth inquired eagerly.