“Don’t think about the dreadful part,” urged Betty.  “Think of the funny things Mrs. Brown told, of the time the levee broke at Shawneetown.  The table all set for supper, and the water pouring in until the table floated up to the ceiling, and went bobbing around like a fish.”

“That doesn’t help any,” said Lloyd, after a moment.  “I see the watah crawlin’ highah and highah up the walls, above the piano and pictuahs, till I feel as if it is crawlin’ aftah me, and will be all ovah the bed in a minute.  Did you evah think how solemn it is, Betty Lewis, to be away out in the middle of the ocean, with nothing but a few planks between us and drownin’?  Seems to me the ship pitches around moah than usual, to-night, and the engine makes a mighty strange, creakin’ noise.”

“Do you remember the night I put you to sleep at the Cuckoo’s Nest?” asked Betty.  “The night after you fell down the barn stairs, playing barley-bright?  Shut your eyes and let me try it again.”

It was no nursery legend or border ballad that Betty crooned this time, but some peaceful lines of the old Quaker poet, and the quiet comfort of them stole into Lloyd’s throbbing brain and soothed her excited fancy.  Long after Betty was asleep she went on repeating to herself the last lines: 

    “I know not where His islands lift
     Their fronded palms in air,
     I only know I cannot drift
     Beyond His love and care.”

She did dream of fires and floods that night, but the horror of the scenes was less, because a baby voice called cheerfully through them, “Here, daddy, give these to the poor little boys that are cold and homesick?” and a great St. Bernard, with a Red Cross on his back, ran around distributing mittens and tin soldiers.

“Now that we are half-way across the ocean,” said Mrs. Sherman, next morning, “I may give you Allison Walton’s letter.  She enclosed it in one her mother wrote, and asked me not to give it to you until we were in mid-ocean.  I suppose her experience in coming over from Manila taught her that letters are more appreciated then than at the beginning of the voyage.”

The Little Colonel unfolded it, exclaiming in surprise, “It is dated ’The Beeches.’  I thought that they were in Lloydsboro Valley all summah, in the cottage next to the churchyard.  That one you used to like,” she added, turning to Betty.  “The one with the high green roof and deah little diamond-shaped window-panes.”

“So they are in the Valley,” answered her mother.  “But their new house is finished now, and they have moved into that.  As they have left all the beautiful beech grove standing around it, they have decided to call the place The Beeches, as ours is called Locust, on account of the trees in front of it.”