' for which Susanna
is always looking, but who have thus far avoided peaceful Marsden.
Unlucky woman! whose first meeting with her expected 'tramp' should be
on such a night and alone. Wind or no wind, she'll make a short journey
of the long road home."

Already, safe once more in the sheltered dining-room which was on the
side of the house least exposed to the storm and that did not face the
outbuildings, the housemistress's confidence returned. If only
Montgomery were with her, so, that she knew him also safe, she would
have been content. As it was, even, she began to think kindly and
pityingly of whatever poor wretch had sought shelter at her door. If he
didn't smoke, and so endanger the buildings, she wished he would seek
cover with old Whitey till the storm was past.

Meanwhile, one crouching in the hay-strewn bay, hugging a squirming dog
for company, and one lying upon a narrow stretcher beneath the
eaves,--the missing Katharine and Montgomery listened to the roar of the
tempest and believed that the very day of doom had arrived. Neither had
ever heard anything like that wind. Indeed, none in Marsden ever had,
and the morning was to reveal many ruined buildings and uprooted trees.
But thus far the darkness hid all this, and Widow Sprigg raced homeward
unharmed save by the rain, which now began to fall in torrents.

Miss Maitland was watching her arrival in great anxiety. She had early
secured every door and shutter, save at this one window which commanded
the path from the gate. Here she had placed a brightly burning lamp to
act as beacon to the wanderers, and she had also set the fire to blazing
brightly. Before the fire hung warm clothing for the pair, and, having
done all that she could think of for their comfort, she had passed to
and fro between the sitting-room and Moses' chamber. He was almost as
uneasy as the storm itself; alternately berating himself for a "fool,"
and speculating upon the deacon's management of affairs at the barn.

"I'll bet--I'll bet a continental he never cut the fodder for the cattle
but just give it to 'em hull! He was no 'count of a farmer, the deacon
wasn't. Good man, yes. I ain't sayin' he ain't that; but did it ever
strike you, Eunice, that most good folks is pesky stupid? Or 'clever'
ones, uther? I call it plumb equal to tellin' you you're a reg'lar
tomnoddy to say a fellar's uther 'clever' or 'good.' I 'low little
stutterin' Monty Sturtevant could ha' done the chores well en