“How long will it take?” he said sullenly.

“I haven’t an idea.  I’d have to go the Hartley and examine the records and be sure that there was no flaw in the deeds to the land; but the first thing is to get a surveyor and know for sure if you have a water-power that will work and not infringe on your neighbours.  A thing like this can’t be done in a few minutes’ persuasive conversation.  It will take weeks.”

It really seemed as if it would take months.  Kate went to Walden that afternoon, set the children playing in the ravine while she sketched it, made the best estimate she could of its fall, and approved the curve on the opposite bank which George thought could be cleared for a building site and lumber yard.  Then she added a location for a dam and a bridge site, and went home to figure and think.  The further she went in these processes the more hopeless the project seemed.  She soon learned that there must be an engine with a boiler to run the saw.  The dam could be used only to make a pond to furnish the water needed; but at that it would be cheaper than to dig a cistern or well.  She would not even suggest to Aunt Ollie to sell any of the home forty.  The sale of the remainder at the most hopeful price she dared estimate would not bring half the money needed, and it would come in long-time payments.  Lumber, bricks, machinery, could not be had on time of any length, while wages were cash every Saturday night.

“It simply can’t be done,” said Kate, and stopped thinking about it, so far as George knew.

He was at once plunged into morose moping; he became sullen and indifferent about the work, ugly with Kate and the children, until she was driven almost frantic, and projects nearly as vague as some of George’s began to float through her head.

One Saturday morning Kate had risen early and finished cleaning up her house, baking, and scrubbing porches.  She had taken a bath to freshen and cool herself and was standing before her dresser, tucking the last pins in her hair, when she heard a heavy step on the porch and a loud knock on the screen door.  She stood at an angle where she could peep; she looked as she reached for her dress.  What she saw carried her to the door forgetful of the dress.  Adam, Jr., stood there, white and shaken, steadying himself against the casing.

“Adam!” cried Kate.  “Is Mother —?”

He shook his head.

“Father —?” she panted.

He nodded, seeming unable to speak.  Kate’s eyes darkened and widened.  She gave Adam another glance and opened the door.  “Come in,” she said.  “When did it happen?  How did he get hurt?”

In that moment she recalled that she had left her father in perfect health, she had been gone more than seven years.  In that time he could not fail to illness; how he had been hurt was her first thought.  As she asked the question, she stepped into her room and snatched up her second best summer dress, waiting for Adam to speak as she slipped into it.  But speaking seemed to be a very difficult thing for Adam.  He was slow in starting and words dragged and came singly:  “Yesterday —­ tired —­ big dinner —­ awful hot —­ sunstroke —­ "