“Now about the boys, Dorothy,” he said, two hours later, as they stood together by the fire in the low, oak-finished room, which was his office and book-room. The door was ajar so that Dorothy might hear her mother's bell. “Don't you think they had better be sent to school somewhere?”
“Yes,” said Dorothy, “they ought to go to school,—but—well, I may as well tell thee the truth. There's very little to do it with. We've had a poor summer. I suppose I've managed badly, and mother has been sick a good while.”
“You've forgotten about the pond-rent, Dorothy.”
“No,” she said, with a quick flush, “I hadn't forgotten it, but I couldn't ask thee for it.”
“I spoke to your father about monthly payments, but he said better leave it to accumulate for emergencies. Shouldn't you call this an 'emergency,' Dorothy?”
“But does thee think we ought to ask rent for a pond that has all leaked away?”
“Oh, there's pond enough left, and I've used it a dozen times over this summer. I should be ashamed to tell you, Dorothy, how my horn has been exalted in your father's absence. However, retribution has overtaken me at last; I'm responsible, you know, for all the damage last night. It was in the agreement that I should keep up the dams.”
“Oh!” said Dorothy; “is thee sure?”
Evesham laughed.
“If your father was like any other man, Dorothy, he'd make me 'sure,' when he gets home. I will defend myself to this extent; I've patched and propped them all summer, after every rain, and tried to provide for the fall storms; but there's a flaw in the original plan”—