Evesham returned with the chaise and a man, who, he insisted, should drive
away old John and the cows, so that Dorothy should have less care. The
mother was packed into the chaise with a vast collection of wraps, which
almost obliterated Jimmy. As they started, Dorothy ran out in the rain with
her mother's spectacles and the five letters, which always lay in a box on
the table by her bed. Evesham took her gently by the arms and lifted her
back across the puddles to the stoop.

As the chaise drove off, she went back into the sitting-room and crouched
on the rug, her wet hair shining in the firelight. She took out her
chickens one by one and held them under her chin, with tender words and
finger-touches. If September chickens have feelings as susceptible as their
bodies, Dorothy's orphans must have been imperiled by her caresses.

"Look here, Dorothy! Where's my trousers?" cried Shep, opening the door at
the foot of the stairs.

Reuby was behind him, fully arrayed in his own garment aforesaid, and
carrying the bedroom candle.

"Here they are--with a needle in them," said Dorothy. "What are you getting
up in the middle of the night for?"

"Well, I guess it's time somebody's up. Who's that man driving off our
cows?"

"Goosey! It's Walter Evesham's man. He came for mother and all of us, and
he's taken old John and the cows to save us so much foddering."

"Ain't we going too?"