The knocking grew louder, as if the person had no time to hesitate at making a noise. "Who's there?" called out my father; and at the answer he opened the front door, first shutting mine.
A minute afterwards I heard some one in my room. "Phineas, are you here?—don't be frightened."
I was not—as soon as his voice reached me, John's own familiar voice. "It's something about the tan-yard?"
"Yes; the waters are rising, and I have come to fetch your father; he may save a good deal yet. I am ready, sir"—in answer to a loud call. "Now, Phineas, lie you down again, the night's bitter cold. Don't stir—you'll promise?—I'll see after your father."
They went out of the house together, and did not return the whole night.
That night, February 5, 1795, was one long remembered at Norton Bury. Bridges were destroyed—boats carried away—houses inundated, or sapped at their foundations. The loss of life was small, but that of property was very great. Six hours did the work of ruin, and then the flood began to turn.
It was a long waiting until they came home—my father and John. At daybreak I saw them standing on the doorstep. A blessed sight!
"O father! my dear father!" and I drew him in, holding fast his hands—faster and closer than I had done since I was a child. He did not repel me.
"Thee'rt up early, and it's a cold morning for thee, my son. Go back to the fire."
His voice was gentle; his ruddy countenance pale; two strange things in Abel Fletcher.