Then she rose and hobbled across the room. Her bright little, birdlike
eyes, that had never yet known spectacles, had seen something up the
Cheslow road.

"Who's this a-coming? For the land's sake, what recklessness! Is that
Jabez and his mules, Ruthie? Bless us and save us! what's he going to
try and do?"

The two girls ran to the door. Down the hill thundered a farm wagon
drawn by a pair of mules, said mules being on the dead run while their
driver stood in the wagon and snapped his long, blacksnake whip over
their ears. Such a descent of the hill was reckless enough in any
case; but now, at the foot, rolled the deep water. It had washed away
a little bridge that spanned what was usually a rill, but the banks of
this stream being overflowed for yards on either side, the channel was
at least ten feet deep.

It was Jabez Potter driving so recklessly down the hill from Cheslow.

"Oh, oh!" screamed the old lady. "Jabez will be killed! Oh, my back
and oh, my bones! Oh, deary, deary me!"

She had crossed the porch and was hobbling down the steps. Her
rheumatic twinges evidently caused her excruciating pain, but the fear
she felt for the miller's safety spurred her to get as far as the
fence. And there Ruth and Helen kept her from splashing into the muddy
water that covered the road.

"You can do no good, Aunt Alvirah!" cried Ruth.