the water far into the garden.

"Right over my chrysanthemum bed," sighed Dorothy.

The wheel swung slower and slower, the mocking tumult subsided, and the old
mill sank into sleep again.

There was nothing now to drown the roaring of the floods and the steady
drive of the storm.

"There's a lantern," Shep called from the door. He had opened the upper
half and was shielding himself behind it. "I guess it's Evesham coming back
for us. He's a pretty good sort of a fellow after all; don't thee think so,
Dorothy? He owes us something for drowning us out at the sheep-washing."

"What does all this mean?" said Dorothy, as Evesham swung himself over the
half-door and his lantern showed them to each other in their various phases
of wetness.


"There's a big leak in the lower dam; I've been afraid of it all along;
there's something wrong in the principle of the thing."

Dorothy felt as if he had called her grandfather a fraud, and her father
a delusion and a snare. She had grown up in the belief that the mill-dams
were part of Nature's original plan in laying the foundations of the hills;
but it was no time to be resentful, and the facts were against her.

"Dorothy," said Evesham, as he tucked the buffalo about her, "this is the
second time I've tried to save you from drowning, but you never will wait.