tchen; a silence
only broken by the ticking of the tall clock and the beating of
Rebecca's heart, which, it seemed to her, almost drowned the voice of
the clock. The rain ceased, a sudden rosy light filled the room, and
through the window a rainbow arch could be seen spanning the heavens
like a radiant bridge. Bridges took one across difficult places,
thought Rebecca, and uncle Jerry seemed to have built one over her
troubles and given her strength to walk.

"The shower 's over," said the old man, filling his pipe; "it's cleared
the air, washed the face o' the airth nice an' clean, an' everything
to-morrer will shine like a new pin--when you an' I are drivin' up
river."

Rebecca pushed her cup away, rose from the table, and put on her hat
and jacket quietly. "I'm not going to drive up river, Mr. Cobb," she
said. "I'm going to stay here and--catch bricks; catch 'em without
throwing 'em back, too. I don't know as aunt Mirandy will take me in
after I've run away, but I'm going back now while I have the courage.
You wouldn't be so good as to go with me, would you, Mr. Cobb?"

"You'd better b'lieve your uncle Jerry don't propose to leave till he
gits this thing fixed up," cried the old man delightedly. "Now you've
had all you can stan' to-night, poor little soul, without gettin' a fit
o' sickness; an' Mirandy'll be sore an' cross an' in no condition for
argyment; so my plan is jest this: to drive you over to the brick house
in my top buggy; to have you set back in the corner, an' I git out an'
go to the side door; an' when I git your aunt Mirandy 'n' aunt Jane out
int' the shed to plan for a load o' wood I'm goin' to have hauled there
this week, you'll slip out o' the buggy and go upstairs to bed. The
front door won't be locked, will it?"

"Not this time of night," Rebecca answered; "not till aunt Mirandy goes
to bed; but oh! what if it should be?"

"Well, it won't; an' if 't is, why we'll have to face it out; though in
my opinion there's things that won't bear facin' out an' had better be
settled comfortable an' quiet. You see you ain't run away yet; you've
only come over here to consult me 'bout runnin' away, an' we've
concluded it ain't wuth the trouble. The only real sin you've
committed, as I figger it out, was in comin' here by the winder when
you'd ben sent to bed. That ain't so very black, an' you can tell your
aunt Jane 'bout it come Sunday, when she's chock full o' religion, an'
she can advise you when you'd