As summer wore on into autumn the dry weather turned to a veritable drought, and all the streams ran lower and lower. Word came early that the mills at Harner's Bend, over in the next valley, had been compelled to shut down for lack of logs. But Brine's Rip exulted¹ unkindly. The Ottanoonsis, fed by a group of cold spring lakes, maintained a steady flow; there were plenty of logs, and the mills had every prospect² of working full time all through the autumn. Presently they began to gather in big orders which would have gone otherwise to Harner's Bend. Brine's Rip not only exulted, but took into itself merit. It felt that it must, on general principles, have deserved well of Providence³, for Providence so obviously to take sides with it.  
As August drew to a dusty, choking end, Mary Farrell began to collect her accounts. Her tact⁴ and sympathy made this easy for her, and women paid up civilly enough who had never been known to do such a thing before, unless at the point of a summons. Mary said she was going to the States, perhaps as far as New York itself, to renew her stock and study up the latest fashions.
 
Every one was much interested. Woolly Billy's eyes brimmed over at the prospect of her absence, but he was consoled by the promise of her speedy return with an air-gun and also a toy steam-engine that would really go. As for Jim, his feathery black tail drooped⁵ in premonition of a loss, but he could not gather exactly what was afoot. He was further troubled by an unusual depression on the part of Tug⁶ Blackstock. The Deputy-Sheriff seemed to have lost his zest⁷ in tracking down evil-doers.
 
It was nearing ten o'clock on a hot and starless night. Tug Blackstock, too restless to sleep, wandered down to the silent mill with Jim at his heels. As he approached, Jim suddenly went bounding on ahead with a yelp⁸ of greeting. He fawned⁹ upon a small, shadowy figure which was seated on a pile of deals close to the water's edge. Tug Blackstock hurried up.
 
"You here, Mary, all alone, at this time o' night!" he exclaimed.
 
"I come here often," answered Mary, making room for him to sit beside her.
 
"I wish I'd known it sooner," muttered the Deputy.
 
"I like to listen to the rapids, and catch glimpses of the water slipping away blindly in the dark," said Mary. "It helps one not to think," she added with a faint catch in her voice.
 
"Why should you not want to think, Mary?" protested Blackstock.
 
"How dreadfully dry everything is," replied Mary irrelevantly¹⁰, as if heading Blackstock off. "What if there should be a fire at the mill? Wouldn't the whole village go, like a box of matches? People might get caught asleep in their beds. Oughtn't there to be more than one night watchman in such dry weather as this? I've so often heard of mills catching¹¹ fire—though I don't see why they should, any more than houses."
 
"Mills most generally git set afire," answered the Deputy grimly. "Think what it would mean to Harner's Bend if these mills should git burnt down now! It would mean thousands and thousands to them. But you're dead right, Mary, about the danger to the village. Only it depends on the wind. This time o' year, an' as long as it keeps dry, what wind there is blows mostly away from the houses, so sparks and brands would just be carried out over the river. But if the wind should shift to the south'ard or thereabouts, yes, there'd be more watchmen needed. I s'pose you're thinkin' about your shop while ye're away?"
 
"I was thinking about Woolly Billy," said Mary gravely. "What do I care about the old shop? It's insured, anyway."
 
"I'll look out for Woolly Billy," answered Blackstock. "And I'll look out for the shop, whether you care about it or not. It's yours, and your name's on the door, and anything of yours, anything you've touched, an' wherever you've put your little foot, that's something for me to care about. I ain't no hand at making pretty speeches, Mary, or paying compliments, but I tell you these here old sawdust roads are just wonderful to me now, because your little feet have walked on 'em. Ef only I could think that you could care—that I had anything, was anything, Mary, worth offering you——"
 
He had taken her hand, and she had yielded it to him. He had put his great arm around her shoulders and drawn¹² her to him,—and for a moment, with a little shiver, she had leant against him, almost cowered¹³ against him, with the air of a frightened child craving¹⁴ protection. But as he

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