It was the chorus of girls. This had long been the custom of the school, to wake the pupils by song on Easter morning.

The voices drew nearer. The singers paused at the landing of the stair. Hester could distinguish Erma's loud, clear notes which soared upward like a bird and floated over all.

The spirit of the Easter morn came to Hester.

There was peace and joy. She wished for that. She really had not had it for weeks. While the song rose and fell, her heart softened toward Helen. She would make up with her. She would ask to be forgiven and be friends again. She crept out of bed and went to Helen's bed, but Helen had gone to make one of the Easter Wakening Chorus.

CHAPTER XIV

May came and was quickly passing. The girls were talking caps and gowns and diplomas. The seniors went about with a superior air; the juniors were little better for they had a classday at least. The freshmen and sophomores, in the plans for commencement week, were but the fifth wheel to a wagon. They were ignored. If they offered suggestions they were snubbed, and informed, not too gently, that they could not be expected to know anything about such matters—being new to the ways of commencement.

Though they had neither commencement, class day, nor play, the freshmen and sophomores did not lose spirit. What was not theirs by rights, they meant to make theirs by foul means and strategy.

It had long been the custom of the seniors to follow the commencement proper with a banquet. This included only members of the senior class. The Alumnæ banquet took place later and was in the hands of old students who had long since left the seminary. Among these were the wives of judges, physicians, bankers—people with whom the freshmen and sophomores dare not interfere, though it would have been an easy matter to have taken this Alumnæ Banquet, for there was no one on hand to guard it. The menu and serving were wholly in the hands of a caterer from the city.

Knowing that the affairs of the Alumnæ must not be tampered with, the freshmen turned all their energies toward the seniors and juniors.

The juniors were to give a play. The costumes were to be rented for the occasion. The play itself was zealously guarded lest it be stolen. Erma, whose talent lay in a histrionic direction, had charge of the copies of the drama. Erma had talent but no forethought. She put the pamphlets in the place most suited to them. Hester, who had been sent out by her class as a scout to find what she could of the plans of the juniors, discovered the books the first day; and not only the books but the names of the juniors and the parts which each was to take. Hester reported immediately the results of her investigation. The following day, while Erma was engaged elsewhere the play disappeared, was hurriedly copied by the freshmen and replaced. Not a member of the junior class, so the freshmen believed, was aware of what took place and was not the wiser that the freshmen had begun the preparation of the same play.

"We can outdo them," said Louise at the class-meeting. "The play is booked for Tuesday evening. Monday evening is the band concert and promenade from seven o'clock until eight-thirty. After that, the freshmen class will have the floor and we'll give the play before the juniors. Their efforts will fall flat on Tuesday evening."

"But the costumes!" exclaimed Hester. "What will we do for them?"

"Borrow them from the juniors when they are from their rooms. We will need them but one evening. We'll return them as fresh as ever the following morning."

"Will they lend them?" It was a little first term girl who asked the question.

"No, you dear little freshie, they will not lend them if they can help themselves. We will ask them Tuesday morning and use them Monday. It is the safest way," said Emma, who was exceedingly enthusiastic over this part of school life. While at home, she had read volumes on the subject of life at a boarding school. From the impression left by those books, life at school was one succession of receptions, public meetings, and practical jokes. Discipline and lessons were in the undercurrent of life. Life at Dickinson had been wholly different from what Emma had anticipated. This stealing of the junior play and presenting it before the juniors had the opportunity, appealed to Emma. This was more in the order of the books she had read.

Louise sat up on the rostrum, appointing the students to their parts. She looked at Emma quizzingly, "About your part, Emma," she began.

"I know what I want to be. Let me be queen. I'd dearly love to put my hair up and wear a train."

"You! The queen!" the girls laughed in scorn. "You never would have dignity enough for that. What you should be is a Dutch doll that moves with a spring."

"I could do the queen part—," she began.

"Hush, hush. You are talking too loud. Some one is coming."

Footsteps were heard along the stair. The door opened and Renee put her head in.

"Are you there, Louise?" she asked. "Do you object to my taking your umbrella? My roommate has gone off leaving mine locked in the closet, and I've permission to go down town."

"Yes, yes, take it," cried Louise. Renee closed the door and disappeared.

"I'm suspicious of that umbrella," said Edna. "I think Renee was sent up here to see what we were about."

"No, I'd be suspicious of any one but Renee. She wished the umbrella. I am sure of that."

"But why should she need it this afternoon. There is not the slightest suggestion of rain and the sun is not bright."

"Because, she couldn't go without borrowing something," said Louise. "It wouldn't be Renee if she could. I suppose she looked about and an umbrella was the only thing she did not have at hand, so that was the only thing she could borrow."

Eventually the parts were given out and partly learned. The girls had planned for a rehearsal the first week in June. The fact that everything had to be done under cover from the juniors, made the practice drag. They could assemble only at such hours when the juniors were in class, and the chapel vacant.

The sophomores, confident that the freshmen alone would be able to manage the juniors, turned their attention to the seniors. Their plan was to divert the banquet from the dining-hall to one of the society halls, and feast upon it while the seniors went wailing in search of it.

Their plans were developing nicely when the weather saw fit to interfere. The last day of May, which fell on Tuesday, set in with a soft, fine rain. This was nothing alarming in itself, had it performed its work and gone its way. But it lingered all day, all night and when Wednesday morning broke dull and gray, the volume of water had increased, and was coming steadily down. Thursday was but a repetition of Wednesday. The rain did not cease for an instant. The sun never showed his face.

The river had crept up gradually until the water was licking the trunks of the apple trees; but this was not alarming. The ice flood had been higher; and further back on the campus were the marks of the flood of '48, the highest flood ever known along the river. Even then the water had not touched the building. There was nothing at all to be alarmed by the river's rising.

After the afternoon's recitations, the girls went down to the river's edge, although the rain poured down upon them. They were learning the tricks of the old river men. They stuck sticks in the edge of the water to mark the rise or fall.

"It's risen over a foot since lunch time," cried Erma. "See, there is my marker. You can just see it. Think of it—a foot. What will become of us?"

"It will rise twenty feet before we need give it a thought," said Hester. She had been reared along the river and had no fear of it. She loved it in any form it could assume—tranquil and quiet—frozen and white—rolling and bleak and sullen. In every form, she recognized only the beautiful and knew no reason to fear.

"But if it should rise twenty-five?" cried Erma. She was running about excitedly like a water-sprite. Her red sweater gleamed in the sullen gray light. The rain was trickling from her Tam-o-Shanter; but she was oblivious of all, save the far remote danger.

"Oh, what if it should come up twenty-five feet!" she continued asking as she ran along the shore.

"Oh, what if the world should come to an end!" retorted the girls in derision.

The gong in the main hall sounded.

"I knew it," cried Emma. "I knew Doctor Weldon would not allow us to be out long. She's dreadfully careful of us. Now, what harm can a little bit of water do to anyone?" Emma shook her bushy, curly locks.

"Nothing, when one's hair curls naturally. But it can do a lot when one's hair is straight. Look at mine." Mame sighed dismally. "Did you ever see such locks? Every one as straight as a poker. I wish, just for once, I could look like other girls."

Josephine was standing in the hall, waiting when the little group of girls entered.

"Have you been in all the time?" asked Hester. "How could you? The river is fine and getting higher and higher each moment. You shouldn't miss such a sight as this."

"I have not missed it," was the reply, given while the speaker's eyes took a soulful upward glance. "I cannot enjoy nature with people laughing and talking about me. I must be alone and commune with it. I have stood here watching from the window. What a beautiful and yet a terrible scene it is. I feel uplifted."

"I wish I felt the same way—uplifted to the extent of two flights of stairs," said Hester. She had not meant to be funny, but the girls laughed. Josephine turned upon her a hurt, aggrieved look. But just for a moment, then she smiled and said gently, "Hester, you little water-sprite! How can you jest when nature is at war?"

Edna Bucher was another student who would not brave the elements. She stood at the hall window where the stairway makes a turn. She was dressed in very somber clothes, guiltless of curves or graces. She did not look with favor upon girls' trudging out in the storm. It had in it the element of tom-boyism upon which Miss Bucher looked with alarm.

"No, I did not go," she said meekly and apologetically. "I was brought up to think it wasn't ladylike to go out in all kinds of weather; ladies don't do it. It is just what you would expect of a man."

The hearers replied not a word. They did not so much as shrug their shoulders or glance at each other. But each girl resolved at that minute, if being hearty and hale and fearless were unladylike, from that moment they would be that very thing.

The weather soon had its effect upon the spirits of the girls. Gayety in the dormitories and parlors was reduced to the minimum. Pupils stood silent at windows, gazing out at the steady downpour. Where they did gather in groups of three or four, there was no laughing or bright talk. Just a word now and then, and a low reply. At intervals, someone grew intolerant and expressed herself. "Will this rain never stop?" "I was hoping it would clear so that we might go into town."

Their hopes were doomed to disappointment. The rain never ceased for one instant during the night and all day Friday.

At lunch time Friday, the girls ran out on the campus to see what had become of their markers of the evening before. They were gone. The water had come over them and moved up in the campus until it touched the cannae-beds.

"The flowers will be ruined!" cried the girls. As though to prove the truth of the statement, a tongue of water curled itself softly about the plants, sucked deep into the roots, and when it went its way, the cannaes went with it, and only a hollow was left in the great bed, and this was quickly filled with water.

"It has risen three feet since last evening," said Hester, who had been standing silent, estimating the distance. There were exclamations of wonder, surprise, and fear. To many, three feet of a rise in water meant no more than a Greek syllable. They had not been reared near a river, and knew nothing of what might be expected in the way of floods.

"Three feet is nothing," said Hester with the air of one who knew all there was to know of such matters. "Why, a June flood is generally seven feet at home. We do not think much about it. And September floods—we do not always have them, but we wouldn't think of calling it a flood unless the river rose at least five feet. Three feet since yesterday! That is really nothing at all. I hope it will go five feet higher before night."

It was all braggadocio on her part; but it had the desired effect. Erma screamed in terror; Emma's eyes grew big; Mame scolded her soundly for expressing such a wish. For a while she had a hornet's nest about her ears.

Early Friday afternoon, a change came. Before, the rain had come down steady and constant. Now it came in a stream, as though the floors from a great reservoir had given way and the water had fallen in one great body.

There was no going out in this. An umbrella was no protection whatever, for the rain came through as water through a sieve. After dinner, the girls stood in the windows which overlooked the river and watched the water as it crept up, so slowly the eye could not recognize its advance.

The trunks of the apple trees were hidden from view. The water was muddy and foaming. The current had increased until the velocity was ten times that of normal. There was a sullen roar, and tearing as though the banks were giving way. Some logs were running, but not many. The breast of the water was covered with drift. At intervals, large branches of trees went down. Once a great oak, roots, trunk and all, sailed close to the apple tree and almost tore it from the earth. A walk, a piece of fence, a chicken coop, or a dog-kennel went bobbing along their watery way. Some distance below, yet in sight of the school, was the county bridge. It had been built in the early history of the country. It was a big, clumsy-looking affair of wood with a shingled roof and board sides. Now, entrances were cut off by a wide stream. It stood alone, like an isolated being; its weather-beaten sides, looking gray against the brown of the muddy water.

The sight of the river was growing awful, yet it attracted and held the girls. The study bell rang unheeded. Miss Burkham came from her room to call their attention to the study hours.

As the girls from the east wing crossed the main hall in order to reach their rooms, they saw Doctor Weldon in earnest conversation with Marshall, the office boy; Belva, the man-of-all work, and Herman who acted as night-watchman.

"I do not anticipate a bit of trouble," she was saying. "But telegrams came into the city from Reno, thirty miles above, that there was a twenty-foot flood there and still rising. They've sent warning all down the river.

"I have heard that alarm sounded ever since I have been at the seminary. It is always a twenty-foot flood and the word always comes from Reno. Either those people have no idea of a foot measure or their imaginations have been over stimulated." She spoke slowly yet with conviction, as one who has been accustomed to having their slightest word obeyed. The three men had been at the seminary and in her service for ten years. They adored her and accepted her word as final.

"However, Herman, you keep a close watch. Do not let the water reach the drive without warning us. We will not run any risks. If you wish to have Belva and Marshall with you, well and good. I shall ask the matron to have a lunch prepared for you."

There was little possibility of danger. Should the water creep up from the river, even to the west side of the dormitory, a great wing extended to the east and avenues of escape would remain open.

The girls overheard Doctor Weldon's words. They were not alarmed. They understood the conditions perfectly. Should the water come near the west wing, a thing which had never yet occurred even in the famous flood of '48, there could be no immediate danger. They were excited with the prospect of the unusual happening. Since it had rained for five days against their express wishes, they would feel themselves aggrieved if no compensation, in the form of an unusual experience, was offered them.

The fact that it was Friday night, and that the week had been one which had been void of relaxation or amusement in any way, moved the preceptress to shorten the study hour and lengthen the time for recreation.

But the students would not get away from the weather and the flood. Little groups of four and six came together and discussed floods, from the Noachean down to the one of '48. The girls had no personal knowledge of any high water, but they handed down the folk-lore as it had come to them.

Some were particularly fine in giving detail, and making weird, strange scenes so real that their hearers were deeply affected. Erma had this power in a great measure, and Hester, to some extent. By the time they had related several stories, the girls in Sixty-two were shivering with nervous fear.

"Oh, you silly little geese!" cried Erma. "Why, you are actually shivering over something which happened in my great-grandfather's time!"

"But you make it so real! You and Hester talk as if it happened but yesterday," said Mellie.

"Certainly, that is what we try to do," Erma laughed, and seizing Mellie by the hand, drew her up from the floor where she had been sitting. "That is what will make us famous. I shall be a great actress and Hester a great writer."

Hester heard and blushed. She wondered how Erma knew of her day-dreams for she had mentioned them to no one.

"Come, peaches," cried Erma. "I'll take you back to your rooms. If I do not, you all will have nervous prostration, sitting here listening to such stories."

"I do not know when Erma is complimenting me," said Mellie as she followed. "Sometimes I am 'silly goose' and sometimes I am 'peaches.' Now when am I which, and why?"

Erma laughed again. "Oh, you silly goose, don't you know you're peaches all the time with me?"

The girls departed. It was yet early, yet Helen and Hester prepared for bed. Each was deliberately slow. Their paths crossed and recrossed as they moved from one part of the room to the other, yet not a word was said until Hester reached to turn off the light. Then came the customary good-night.

CHAPTER XV

"It is something outside, I'll see." As she spoke she had left her bed and hurried to the window. Her exclamation brought Helen to her. There was no need to ask for explanation. Beech Creek had backed in from a mile beyond, and was lapping against the stone foundation. The water was moving over the campus. Nowhere was it more than an inch deep; but on each side lay the greater depths of the river and the creek.

"Let us get dressed at once!" cried Hester.

"Yes, let us go downstairs," replied Helen. She was not so excited as Hester, yet she was more afraid. Hester knew the river and loved it. Now her excitement did not spring from fear, but from a kind of enjoyment.

They slipped into their clothes and made themselves as presentable as possible and hurried downstairs. At the front entrance was a group of girls. Some were standing on the lower step, which was a single piece of granite. The water was lapping but a few inches below. While they talked and laughed, some hysterically, the water crept up and lapped upon the lower step. The girls moved higher. Five steps led to the entrance, which was on the level of the first floor. Then the breakfast bell sounded and the girls reluctantly went into the dining-room.

While they were standing with their hands on the back of their respective chairs, awaiting the signal from the principal, she addressed them.

"Young ladies, you will be served with plain fare this morning. Perhaps, you do not know that the butcher, the baker, the milkman, and butter-man drive in each morning from Flemington. The road was flooded this morning and they could not reach us. The supplies which the steward keeps on hand, are in the basement, which was flooded last night. You may be seated."

There was no complaint at the bit of bacon and stale bread with which each plate had been served. There were excitement and hilarious good-humor, as though the flood had come for their especial benefit to give them an experience new and unusual. A bit of bacon and stale bread! One could get along very well for a few hours on that. But it seemed destined that the students were not to have even so little.

Marshall came in and hurried to Doctor Weldon. She appeared cool and collected; but one could never tell from her manner whether she were anxious or not. The few seniors who remembered when the building had been afire, remembered Doctor Weldon had acted just so. Waiting until Marshall left the dining-hall, she rang the bell. The buzz of voices ceased.

"Take your plates and go up to the parlor on the second floor. You may be dismissed in order. Miss Burkham's table first."

Miss Burkham arose and led the way. She was quite as collected as Doctor Weldon, although, she, too, had seen the water marks which were appearing on the floor from the water in the basement below.

"It is like a picnic. Think of eating bacon and stale bread in a parlor, done up in pale-green and silver. I know it will taste better." It was Erma who was talking. Her voice rang over all like a silver bell, as with merry laugh and light spirits she lead the way to the floor above.

The door leading from the main hall on to the porch was closed, but a little stream had forced itself in and was trickling over the floor. The men-servants were rolling up the rug, preparatory to carrying it to the floor above and the women-servants were pinning up window draperies and hangings to save them from possible contact with the water.

Doctor Weldon, calm and serene, as though a flood were an everyday occurrence and not at all alarming, went about the building instructing the servants and teachers in regard to saving what they could of the property on the ground floor.

Hester, Helen, Erma, and their friends stood on the landing of the stairway and watched the men work. The girls had forgotten that they were hungry. Their plates were poised in the air and the bits of bacon and stale bread were untouched.

Renee came to the head of the stairway and leaning over the balustrade, looked down on the outstretched plates. "Haven't you girls touched a bite?" she asked. "I am glad I found you. I wish you'd lend me your piece of bacon."

The girls, thus addressed, saw nothing humorous in the request. Erma was about to hand over her portion when a laugh from the hall above caused her to pause. Emma, Edna, and Louise were laughing and ridiculing Renee, who turned about and went off in bad humor, explaining as she did so that she wanted a piece for Mame Cross who had been complaining that she had not been treated as other girls when it came to the distribution of bacon.

The men tossed the rugs upon the first landing of the stairway and went to the assistance of Marshall, who came in with tables and chairs from the kitchen. By much straining and lifting, the pianos were raised upon these.

"That is all we can do," said the night-watchman. "We cannot possibly take them to the second floor. They are three feet higher now. The water can't possibly rise that much more."

Doctor Weldon had taken refuge on the steps for the hall was flooded. The girls moved up to the second floor.

"Let us go to the Philo Hall on the third floor," cried Erma. "We can see over town from there."

"I do not wish to see," said several.

"I do," said Hester and Helen together. The three made their way to the hall whose windows opened to the north and east. The current from the river was sweeping about the corner of the building with a tremendous force. Logs and square timbers, uprooted trees and driftwood were being borne down in great quantities.

On the side of the driveway, where the current was strongest, stood an iron lamp-post deeply imbedded in a foundation of stone. It had been placed there in the early history of the school, when electricity and gas were unknown. It had never been removed for the trustees were graduates of the school and refused to remove the landmarks of their school-days. So there it stood above the muddy, dirty water.

The girls at the open window above could look down upon it.

"See that great timber coming!" cried Helen.

"It is right in the current and making straight for the building. If it should strike the corner!"

The building was old and not able to stand the force of a heavy timber, propelled by such a tremendous force. The girls at the window knew what that meant. They held their breath. The timber rushed on, but it turned broadside in the current and came up against the iron post. There it remained as nicely as though weighed and measured and fixed in place. Back of it came logs and drift which piled upon the timber and lamp-post until a bulwark was formed which turned the current away from the corner and the danger with it.

"It's luck. Did you ever see such luck?" cried Erma. "If that lamp-post had not been there, the whole corner of the building would have been broken in. It was luck—pure luck."

"It was Providence," said Helen simply. "I think it was meant that the lamp-post should be just where it is."

There were few words said. The scene was so awful that the desire to talk was taken away. From the parlors below, the excitement and laughter died. A quiet fell over the building. There was nothing to do but to watch and wait—for what or how long, no one could tell.

The sun shone out on the water. Below, lay the city. The portion which stood low was flooded to the second floor. Hester thought of Aunt Debby as her eyes rested on the distant town.

"There is no fear there," said Helen following the glance of her roommate's eyes. "Fairview Street is the highest in town. You remember there is a terrace with steps where it joins Market. The tops of the buildings on Fourth Street will be covered before it comes to the doors of Fairview."

Hester knew that this was true. No immediate danger threatened the little cottage. The seminary with its old walls and the current from both river and creek beating upon it was where fear lay.

"Look!" cried Helen, pointing her finger to midstream. There bobbing along like a cork on the current was a stable one side of which had been torn away. The mow was filled with hay, and in the stalls beneath was a horse feeding from the manger. It bobbed along serenely, as though midriver in a high flood were the legitimate place for a stable. Then it struck the sides of the bridge. There was the sound of crushing and the barn was sucked down under the bridge and disappeared from sight.

The morning passed and the girls sat in the window seats, fascinated by the sea before them.

The water continued rising until twelve o'clock. It filled the lower halls and crept almost to the second floor. The water-pipes burst and a famine of drink as well as food came. Fortunately, the experiences of the day had taken away the appetite.

"I have been watching that old tree," said Hester. "When the clock struck twelve, the water had just reached the notch at the branches. It is one o'clock now and it has not gone higher."

The waters were at a standstill. The worst was over. At three o'clock, Hester cried out with delight. "It is falling—falling! See the trunk of the tree shows above the water."

It was slowly receding. The danger-mark had passed, although the signs of havoc it had caused, were yet passing on the breast of the river. A part of a kitchen went sailing by. The watchers saw the upper window of a half-submerged house. There was a bed, a cradle, and a sewing-machine open and ready for use. There were pathos and tragedy sufficient for a lifetime. There was a touch of humor too, for on a long plank, at either end, sat a rat and a great black cat. They watched each other instinctively, and were unconscious of the danger which threatened them both.

Five o'clock came, and the girls had not moved from their positions. During the day, but a few sentences had passed between them.

At last hunger came to them. But there was no use going in search of food; for the larder was bare. There was not even a cup of water for them.

For more than an hour Helen had not moved. Fear of the water had passed. A finer feeling than dread inspired her now. Someone from below called Erma, and she left the Philo Hall. She neither laughed nor danced. Even her effervescent spirits had been under the spell of the waters.

Her departure aroused Helen from her reverie. Arising, she came to where Hester sat. Her voice was low. To the old tenderness was added a new sweetness and strength, "Little roommate," she said, "listen to me for a few minutes. Weeks ago, I believed you guilty of an act I could not countenance. I treasured resentment against you, though even while I was doing it, I loved you. I did wrong in not going directly to you and making known my complaint. May I tell it to you now, or shall we let it be as though it never happened, and let all our ugly feeling and bitterness go down with the flood?"

"Let it go with the flood, Helen. I do not know how I erred, but I do know that I missed your friendship. Let us forget it from this minute."

"And let me give what I denied long ago," said Helen, as she stooped to press her lips to Hester's forehead.

CHAPTER XVI

The pupils were yet under the spell of the flood. Unusual quiet reigned in the dormitories, when suddenly a cry of delight came from Erma. Her voice echoed from one end of the hall to the other, and reached even to Miss Burkham's ears; but that lady did not appear to reprimand her. The preceptress realized that the girls had been under a nervous strain all day and she did not have it in mind to restrain them, even though they exceeded the bounds laid down by Seminary law.

"What has happened to Erma?" exclaimed Hester, starting up when the cry reached her ears.

"Don't be alarmed. It is nothing serious. I can tell from her voice. That shriek is Erma's cry of delight."

In an instant, Erma herself tripped down the hall to explain and to share. Knocking hastily, she did not wait to be admitted, but flung open the door.

"What do you think I found?" she cried. "A half-dozen lemons. I forgot that I had them. I bought them last week. Here, we're dividing."

She thrust one out at them. It had already been opened and part of its contents extracted.

"There wasn't enough for one a piece. Just take a good long suck from it."

The girls did. There was nothing humorous in this passing a lemon about among many. Not a drop of liquid had passed their lips since the night before. The few drops of juice which they were able to extract, were refreshing.

"Doesn't it taste good?" cried Erma. "I never knew before how perfectly delicious a cup of cold water is. Wait until I have the opportunity. I mean to drink a gallon without stopping. I must go on. The girls in Sixty haven't had any yet."

She was gone before Hester and Helen had expressed their thanks. Before she reached Sixty, the door opened and Renee came out. "I was looking for you, Erma. Someone said you had found some lemons. Can't you lend me one?"

"What's left of one. Take it and drain it dry." It was almost that now, but Renee received it thankfully.

"I thought I could not stand it another minute. How long will it be before we get anything to eat or drink?"

"In a week or so," cried Erma as she passed on.

Sunday morning broke clear and bright. There were no rising or breakfast bells, for there was nothing to serve the hungry people.

Doctor Weldon and Miss Burkham had conferred together and decided that as long as the girls were sleeping, they would be neither hungry nor thirsty, so they allowed them to sleep until they awakened of themselves.

The perversity of human nature showed itself in every girl's being awake unusually early. At the usual breakfast hour, the upper halls were filled. It was the Sabbath, but on the lower floor the servants were at hard work. The women were wearing top-boots and short skirts, which reached just below the knees. They were dragging out the mud with hoes. In the middle of the floors, the sand and mud were fully a foot deep while in corners, which had been free from the force of the current, the deposit was three times that depth.

In the middle of the main floor, a saw-log lay. A great hole in the plaster showed where it had spent its force, and the shattered glass of the front door was evidence of its place of entrance. The curtains of real lace which had added to the beauty of the reception hall, were nothing but dirty rags, discolored, torn, and hung with bits of drift.

The sun beat down upon the water-soaked places, and the steam which arose, was foul-smelling. The men who were endeavoring to do the heavier portion of clearing, were knee-deep in the drift. The flood had receded, but the basement was yet full of water. The conditions were bad and would remain so for some time, regardless of the fact that everyone was doing his utmost to better them.

There was nothing to be hoped from the city, for it had its own burden. The store-houses had been flooded and the food supply cut off.

Miss Burkham went to Doctor Weldon. "What do you think of my taking the girls from the building?" she asked. "The hygienic conditions here are dreadful. Outside we can find the sunshine, at least. I can take them through the city streets—wherever the streets are open. I think we can keep them better satisfied if we keep their attention on something else than themselves."

"Perhaps, it would be better. I have been concerned about them. They have been most thoughtful and considerate so far. You may take the Fraulein with you—and the school purse, too, Miss Burkham. You may be able to buy something for them."

"While you are gone, I'll try to get into communication with our people at Flemington. The telephone and telegraphs are useless. Marshall and Herman might be able to walk out and carry something back. It will be hours before a delivery wagon can get through to bring us anything."

Following Miss Burkham's instructions, the girls dressed in their shortest and shabbiest skirts and put on heavy shoes. It was a dismal, hungry-looking party which set forth.

For a square down Main Street, the way was clear. They were often forced to leave the sidewalk and make a detour to escape the piles of drift which lay in heaps. The mud was over the tops of the rubber shoes, and the greater number had discarded overshoes before they had gone far. At the corner of Main and Clinton Avenue, they stopped. Their way was cut off by a great pile of logs, timbers, and uprooted trees which reached above the second story of the houses. Here and there, caught between the branches of the trees or the conjunction of timbers, were bits of household articles, parts of chairs, window frames or broken beds and soggy mattresses.

"We can climb over," suggested Hester. "That will not be much of a climb."

Miss Burkham had been hesitating. She feared to go on and yet to go back meant dissatisfied, hungry girls shut up in a wet, foul-smelling building.

"We'll climb," she said. "But be careful to move slowly, and not bring this down upon you."

The feat was not a difficult one. They succeeded in crossing and entered the business street. There was not a whole plate-glass window in this section. They had been shattered into bits so small that no trace of them could be found.

The girls entered what had been the largest and finest grocery store of the city. The mud was several feet deep; the show-cases had been battered to pieces; canned goods were piled in heaps in the corners and covered with refuse. But the combination most surprising, was where a large cheese had tumbled down upon a dead cow which had been washed in from some dairy farm far up the river.

Men were already clearing the streets, and shoveling the refuse from the stores.

From the business thoroughfare, Miss Burkham led her charges to the residence street. Here conditions were the same. The elegant houses bore the marks of the flood. Trees were uprooted. Lawns which but a few days before were things of beauty, were now but heaps of refuse, or hollows filled with water.

Doors and windows stood open wide. Delicate, cultivated women had arrayed themselves in overalls and were scraping the mud from their homes.

As they made their way eastward, Robert Vail hurried down a side-street to meet them.

"I started for school the instant I could," he explained to Miss Burkham. "I did not know how bad conditions were, but I expected they could not be good.

"I have a tally-ho and horses, but we could not get beyond Fairview Street. South Street is a mere chasm. The horses could not have crossed there. I did reach Miss Alden and Miss Richards. My man took them back home while I came in."

Hester grasped his arm. "Auntie—is Auntie all right?"

"Fine as silk. She was concerned about you until we satisfied her that seminary girls could not be gotten rid of so easily. It takes more than a flood—" He spoke lightly to the girls and then turned to Miss Burkham. "Our housekeeper said I should fill up the tally-ho and bring the girls there. The buildings at school will not be fit to live in for some days. We'll take care of eighteen or twenty until you arrange matters."

A feeling of relief came to the preceptress. "You have taken a great responsibility from Doctor Weldon and me," she said. "We shall never be able to thank you. As to the girls, Hester and Helen, of course must go; also the Fraulein, for I must not allow the girls to go alone."

She turned to the group about her, and selected the number which would fill the tally-ho.

"You girls will go with the Fraulein and Mr. Vail, and remain until we send you word to return. Berenice, Violet, Edith and I will return to school."

"I declare, this is too bad," cried Robert. "I cannot allow you to walk back, and without anything to eat."

"You cannot help it. The circumstances are unusual. The elements have our fortunes in hand," she replied.

"The instant I get the young ladies home, my man and I will come back with all the good things we can carry. Tell Doctor Weldon that we shall have a dinner—perhaps a late one—for her."

"She has sent messengers to Flemington. They will bring us something for one meal at least. Come, girls." She led her little flock toward home. There was no hope of finding a bite to eat anywhere in the city. Men and women had worked all night and were yet working without a particle of food or drop to drink. The preceptress was worn and weak. Her responsibility for the last two days had been great; but she did not dare give up. She trudged bravely toward school, encouraging the girls and drawing their attention to any phase of the situation which was not burdened with pathos.

Robert Vail led his party down the residence street and then turned down an alley. "These narrow passages have less drift," he explained. "My man and I discovered this this morning."

By devious ways, he brought them out on High Street which stood above the ravages of the flood. Here a tally-ho with four horses stood waiting.

Robert assisted the Fraulein and girls to their places and bade the coachman drive on. Hester and Helen sat side by side.

"Now, I am really to meet your Aunt Harriet," said Hester. "It is very strange. Think of my rooming with you for ten months and never meeting her."

"Never met mother?" exclaimed Robert Vail. "Be prepared to meet the finest mother in the world."

"There may be some exception," said Helen, "at least Hester may think so. She may be vain enough to think that she had the finest mother in the world."

"Oh, no," began Hester hastily and then she paused. She was not dull. She had been keen enough to know that there was something not just right about a mother and child traveling alone through a strange country and no one ever searching for them. But she could not allow any one else to know her thoughts. Her face flushed as she continued, "I have never known a mother. Aunt Debby is all I ever had. I am sure that no one can be finer than she."

"We will make an exception in favor of Miss Alden," continued Robert. "With the exception of Miss Debby Alden, you will find my mother the finest woman in the world. You'll fall in love with her the instant that you meet her."

"I know. I have caught several glimpses of her but I never met her. But, perhaps she will not care for me. I should not be pleased if I should like your mother very much and she would not like me at all."

Vain little Hester Alden. She knew what speech Robert Vail would make. She had heard him express himself on the subject twice before. Because his words had pleased her, she called them forth again.

"There'll be no danger of her not liking you. I'll vouch for that. Mother and I always like the same people and things. She has the best taste in the world."

Helen laughed teasingly. "You like to impress people with the fact that you are fond of your mother; but have you ever noticed, Cousin Robert, that there is always one compliment for her, and two for you?

"Robert Vail and his mother like the same things. That is the first premise. The second is, his mother has excellent taste; conclusion—Robert Vail has excellent taste. I have not studied logic for nothing, Cousin Robert."

Robert shrugged his shoulders. "That is a girl's idea of reason," he said. "They always go about in a circle, like a lost duck and they never lose the personal element in anything."

"Your remarks are not original," said Helen. "I have heard Doctor Baker say that same thing."

"I have heard you mention Doctor Baker before. Is he your physician at home?" asked Hester. She had forgotten Helen's Easter letter.

"He's our pastor and perfectly lovely, Hester. He has been with us a long, long time. I told you once about him, but you were vexed with me then and my words fell on deaf ears. Sometime you must come and spend a month with me in my home and you shall meet Doctor Baker."

"I never would go and leave Aunt Debby for an entire month. It was bad enough to go to school and not be with her," was Hester's reply.

"But Aunt Debby can come along. My father would like her, and she and Aunt Harriet would be friends from the moment they met. Maybe we can arrange it for this summer. Sometimes Doctor Baker comes to visit us, too. He gets very lonely. I should think any one living alone would be lonely."

"Isn't he married?" asked Hester. "I thought ministers were always married. Why doesn't he get married?"

"You think a marriage certificate goes with the manse," said Robert. "His case is a paradox. He is always marrying, and yet never is married. Quite a riddle isn't it?"

Helen's face lighted up. She was like Hester in that both delighted to hear romantic stories.

"He had a love affair, a long time ago," she said softly as though the subject were one too sacred for full tones to play upon. "But he went to college, and when he came back his sweetheart did not care for him. But he has never forgotten her."

Hester gave a sigh of contentment. She would remember and tell her Aunt Debby about this. While her Aunt Debby had chided her about repeating these little romantic tales which came to her ears, Hester had a feeling that the elder Miss Alden was not wholly unsympathetic.

Josephine, who was sitting in the front of the tally-ho, caught the last of Helen's speech. She sighed, and leaning forward that all might catch her words, said: "How lovely! Such persons appeal to me. There is nothing in the world which is so beautiful to me as faithfulness. How perfectly lovely! I always—"

"Hester, lend me a pin, please. I see you have one in the front of your coat and I need one to fasten the ends of my tie," it was Renee who broke in upon Josephine's flow of sentiment.

"We shall soon be there now," said Robert. "The house stands back of those trees." He pointed to a small elevation which was about a mile distant. The girls exclaimed with delight except Mame Cross who looked down upon her short skirt and mud-stained shoes with a mortified expression.

"Really, Mr. Vail, I simply cannot enter your home, looking like this. Your mother would refuse to receive me."

"I do not understand why," he replied.

"Mame, do please forget about it," laughed Erma. "My shoes are muddy; my skirt is shabby; I am hungry—so hungry that I'll fairly snatch at anything to eat. I look like a fright, I know I do. But what's the use of thinking about it. It can't be helped. So why not pretend that we do not notice it?"

"We must make up for our looks by being so nice that Mrs. Vail will not notice that we are not immaculate." It was Mellie who offered this suggestion.

"That is all very well for you girls to speak so," said Mame. "But you do not look as I do. You girls look nice, considering what you have gone through; but me—I always look the worst. I never look like other girls."

"Then give up trying, Mame. You never will look like other girls, you know. So make the best of matters which cannot be helped, and be cheerful and gay." Erma's words were supposed to be ironical; but her happy little laugh and dainty little touch upon Mame's hand, robbed them of their sting.

"Here we are!" exclaimed Robert Vail, as the horses turned from the main road into a private drive. Hester opened her eyes in astonishment. She had seen the beautiful homes near Lockport, but this surpassed any. The house was in the midst of a great park; there were lawn, forest, and flowers. The house was large, but not imposing. It had rather the look of a home than of a mansion. Never before had Hester seen such beauty of surroundings. Nature and cultivation had worked together to make the best of this.

As the girls stepped from the tally-ho, Hester grasped Helen by the arm, "I am afraid—afraid," she whispered.

"To meet Aunt Harriet? Why, little roommate, she is not a bit formidable. You will love her."

"I think it is not just that—" she began again. She could not finish. Aunt Debby and Miss Richards had come to meet them. Back of these two, stood a large, wiry woman in a dark dress and an extensive white apron.

"My little girl," cried Debby, clasping Hester in her arms. "I have been very anxious about you."

"I was safe, Aunt Debby. Perfectly safe, but so hungry."

Robert Vail escorted his guests to the door.

"This is Mrs. Perkins, young ladies," he said, indicating to the big woman. "She will see that you have something to eat at once."

"I have been waiting dinner. If the ladies wish to come at once—" She led the way. The guests were weak from hunger. The odor of the food aroused their appetites afresh.

"Did you ever think bread and butter was so gloriously fine?" said Emma after her first mouthful. "Do you realize that we have had nothing since Friday evening."

"I do; but I do not intend talking about it—now," said Hester. "I have greater things to do."

Indeed, they all had that. They had kept up bravely under strenuous conditions. There had been no word of complaint. Erma especially, had been cheerful and gay as long as those two qualities were needed to sustain herself and her friends. Now, she was the first to give way. After a few morsels had been eaten, she realized that she was tired—so tired that she believed that ever being rested again would be an impossibility. She made an effort to keep up. She tried to laugh, but ended with a nervous giggle. Then to the amazement of all, she began to cry and sob.

"I am so tired. I am too tired to live. I never could go through with this again."

"And you will not need to—never again," said Miss Debby, going to the girl's aid.

"Let her cry. It will do her good," she continued as the others were about to leave their dinner. "Let her cry, it will do her good."

At this Renee began to giggle. Mame looked at her and straightway did as Renee. Mellie and Josephine made a brave effort to control themselves, but after a few minutes they were following Erma's example and were sobbing as though their hearts would break.

Miss Richards and Miss Debby took matters into their hands. There was no help to be expected from the Fraulein, for she was as wearied as the girls.

The housekeeper made ready the rooms and the girls were forced to go to bed.

"Each young lady ate a little something, I observed," said Mrs. Perkins. "Let them rest a while, then I shall take some refreshments to them."

"It was so beautiful what they behaved yet to this time," cried the Fraulein. "Never no word, no fuss, all smiles, all funs, no cross or nothing until now." She was much disturbed lest the women would discredit her for the girls' behavior.

"We understand," said Debby Alden. "It is not your fault, Fraulein. You are going to rest now, too. We intend treating you like a little girl; send you to bed and send your bread and jelly to you."

"Ach," the little German teacher tried to look self-reliant and sufficient to take care of herself. But there was something in Debby Alden's manner which touched her. The Fraulein was a stranger in a strange land. Many and many were the times when she longed for the tenderness of those who were bound to her by the ties of love and blood. She was but a little homesick girl, herself and wished to be mothered like other girls. But she was brave enough with all her longing. She shrugged her shoulders; but Debby laid her hand affectionately on the girl's shoulder. That settled it. In an instant, the German teacher rested her head against Debby; her eyes filled; she touched Debby's cheeks tenderly; "I vill go. The Fraulein is so kind. The Fraulein has a heart in her breast." Without a word of demur, the little German teacher followed the girls and rested while the housekeeper and Debby Alden waited upon them with the most kindly attention.

Robert Vail and his man had returned at once to the city taking with them a supply of necessities. The housekeeper came to Miss Debby with the explanation and apology. Thought of others had caused Robert to neglect his duty as host. Here Mrs. Perkins looked mournful and as though she might say much if she chose, and added that Mrs. Vail had left early that morning, having driven over the hills to an adjoining town where railroad communications had not been cut off. She had received news which had caused her some anxiety and she had set forth at once.

The housekeeper was in the mood to speak freely; but Debby Alden was not one who discussed with the maid the affairs of the mistress. She accepted the explanation and went her way. So many incidents of life turn as a straw in the wind. This was a time and place propitious for much clearing-up of uncertain matters; but Debby Alden had not been in the mood to listen; and the mistress of the house was traveling over the country after a will-of-the-wisp which had led her many a long, unfruitful journey.

Robert Vail, greatly fatigued with his day's work, came back to Valehurst just at dusk. By this time, the nervous tension had been greatly relieved. The girls had had a nap and a substantial evening meal, and were prepared to look at the experiences of the last few days in a more cheerful light.

Robert brought with him the good news that the hucksters from Flemington had driven in over the hill and had brought food with them to the seminary. The teachers and pupils were preparing to return with them to the farmhouses which stood high enough to be out of the way of the river and creek.

Marshall and Belva with a set of workmen were remaining at school to put the place in order; to build fires that the building might be dried rapidly and to protect the grounds and buildings from vandalism. Doctor Weldon had sent word that the young ladies who were with the Fraulein at Valehurst were to remain there until she recalled them.

Miss Debby and Miss Richards, with the little group of girls, had gathered about Robert on the lawn, anxious and eager to hear about their friends. When the message had been received and the good news told, the crowd separated into little groups. Helen and Hester, in company with Robert, moved toward the house.

"I had no opportunity of asking you about Aunt Harriet," said Helen, "and I do not like to put such questions to Mrs. Perkins. You said that Auntie would be here, Robert." She looked up at him and waited as though expecting an explanation.

"So I thought. We made ready before daylight this morning to go for you girls. Mother came down to see us off. In fact it was she who prepared the lunches to give to any one in distress. But Perkins tells me that quite early someone called her up on the 'phone. She talked a long time. Then she called Ryder and told him to get out the grays and the light carriage. Then she went off. She didn't even leave word where she went. I called up father's office. He knew nothing about it."

"And don't you know?" There was anxiety in Helen's voice. Her eyes had a pained, distressed look.

"She telephoned to Perkins that she had gone to Minnequa, a little factory town where an old colored woman had the care of a young white girl. The message came from those people who had found such a 'sure thing,' before and then failed to make good when the time came."

"You don't mean that horrid man and his son? What was their name—Stroat—Strout?"

"Stout, if I remember right. Before it was a mere scheme to extort money, and I do not doubt that it will be the same now. Poor mother, she will be worn out with the journey and have nothing but disappointment for it all. I mean to talk with her on the wires to-night. If she does not intend coming home at once, I shall go to Minnequa and be with her. I may start early and shall not see you in the morning. Will you explain to Miss Debby and the girls? I am not running away, but I must not let my mother stay there alone."

"Yes, you must go. Do not give a thought about us. We shall be very well taken care of here. Poor Aunt Harriet! How I wish I might fill that empty place in her heart!"

Hester had been walking a few steps in advance; but had heard the conversation. Why should Helen always speak of her aunt as though she were to be pitied? Mrs. Vail had everything that a woman could desire—a beautiful home with trained service, a husband and son who considered no one but her. It was strange. Hester could not understand why Helen should always speak of Mrs. Vail as "poor Aunt Harriet."