“Well,” he said, greeting her, “and so you’ve seen a typical Californian rain-storm. I tell you, you are lucky to be on the hill. I shouldn’t wonder if there was a great deal of damage done in the valley. And the storm is not over yet. This is only a lull, but I thought I would just come over to see how things have been going with you. Where is Bob?”
“Bob is inside, crouching over the fire,” she said.
“He should take you down to see the river,” Ben said. “It is a tremendous sight.”
“I half thought of going by myself,” she said gloomily, “if only for the sake of a little distraction. Bob is in trouble; we are both in trouble. The reservoir burst this morning.”
“Good heavens!” said Ben, “and you talk of it as though your band-box had burst, and that was all.”
She darted an indignant glance at him as he opened the door hastily and went into the house. He laid his hands heavily on Bob’s shoulders and said: “Cheer up, old man. I’ve come to smoke a pipe with you.”
“Ben, old fellow,” Robert Strafford said, looking up, and feeling at once the comfort of his presence.
There was no talk between them: they sat together by the fireside, whilst Hilda lingered outside on the verandah.
At last Robert spoke.
“My best trees are gone,” he said half-dreamily; “the best part of my ranch is ruined.”