Evesham was dizzy with the struggle between longing and resolution. He
had braced his nerves for a long and hungry waiting, but fate had yielded
suddenly; the floods had brought her to him,--his flotsam and jetsam more
precious than all the guarded treasures of the earth. She had come, with
all her girlish, unconscious beguilements, and all her womanly cares and
anxieties too. He must strive against her sweetness, while he helped her to
bear her burdens.

"Now about the boys, Dorothy," he said, two hours later, as they stood
together by the fire in the low, oak-finished room, which was his office
and book-room. The door was ajar so that Dorothy might hear her mother's
bell. "Don't you think they had better be sent to school somewhere?"

"Yes," said Dorothy, "they ought to go to school,--but--well, I may as well
tell thee the truth. There's very little to do it with. We've had a poor
summer. I suppose I've managed badly, and mother has been sick a good
while."

"You've forgotten about the pond-rent, Dorothy."

"No," she said, with a quick flush, "I hadn't forgotten it, but I couldn't
_ask_ thee for it."

"I spoke to your father about monthly payments, but he said better leave
it to accumulate for emergencies. Shouldn't you call this an 'emergency,'
Dorothy?"

"But does thee think we ought to ask rent for a pond that has all leaked
away?"