"It will help him amazingly," he said, "but it is very expensive."
Bethany's heart sank. She thought of the pipes that had sprung a leak that morning, of the broken pump, and the empty flour-barrel. She could not see where all the money they needed was to come from.
"It's too small," said the doctor, after a careful trial of the brace. "The size larger will be just the thing. I will bring it in the morning."
He wiped his forehead wearily as he stopped on the threshold.
"A storm must be brewing," he remarked. "It is so oppressively sultry."
It was not many hours before his prediction was verified by a sudden windstorm that came up with terrific force. The trees in the avenue were lashed violently back and forth until they almost swept the earth. Huge limbs were twisted completely off, and many were left broken and hanging. It was followed by hail and a sudden change of temperature, that suggested winter. The roses were all beaten off the bushes, their pink petals scattered over the soaked grass. The porch was covered with broken twigs and wet leaves.
As night dropped down, the trees bordering the avenue waved their green, dripping boughs shiveringly towards the house.
"How can it be so cold and dreary in July?" inquired Jack. "Let's have a fire in the library and eat supper there to-night."
Bethany shivered. It had been the judge's favorite room in the winter, on account of its large fireplace, with its queer, old-fashioned tiling. She rarely went in there except to dust the books or throw herself in the big arm-chair to cry over the perplexities that he had always shielded her from so carefully. But Jack insisted, and presently the flames went leaping up the throat of the wide chimney, filling the room with comfort and the cheer of genial companionship.
"Look!" cried Jack, pointing through the window to the bright reflection of the fire in the garden outside. "Don't you remember what you read me in 'Snowbound?'