“If we are, it means some thousands of dollars on the wrong side of the ledger,” answered MacFarlane after a pause, a graver tone in his voice.  “But don’t tell Ruth that.  Just give her my message about the bonnet—­she will understand.”

“But not if McGowan is liable,” argued Jack.  If Ruth was to hear bad news it could at least be qualified.

“That depends somewhat on the wording of his contract, Breen, and a good deal on whether this village wants to hold him to it.  I’m not crossing any bridges of that kind, and don’t you.  What I’m worrying about is the number of days and nights it’s going to take to patch this work so they can get trains through our tunnel—­ And, Breen—­”

“Yes, sir,” answered Jack, as he stopped and looked over his shoulder.  There were wings on his feet now.

“Get into some dry clothes before you come back.”

While all this had been going on Ruth had stood at the window in the upper hall opposite the one banked with geraniums, too horrified to move.  She had watched with the aid of her opera-glass the wild torrent rushing through the meadow, and she had heard the shouts of the people in the streets and the prolonged roar when the boulevard embankment gave way.

The hurried entrance and startled cry of the grocer’s boy in the kitchen below, and the loud talk that followed, made her move to the head of the stairs.  There she stood listening, her heart in her mouth, her knees trembling.  Such expressions as “drownded,”—­ “more’n a hundred of ’em—­” reached her ears.  Then came the words —­“de boss’s work busted; ain’t nobody seen him alive, so dey say.”

For an instant she clutched the hand rail to keep her from falling, then with a cry of terror she caught up an old cloth cape, bound a hat to her head with a loose veil, and was downstairs and into the street before the boy had reached the curb.

“Yes, mum,” he stammered, breathlessly, his eyes bulging from his head,—­“Oh! it’s awful, mum!  Don’t know how many’s drownded!  Everybody’s shovelin’ on de railroad dump, but dere ain’t nothin’ kin save it, dey say!”

She raced on—­across the long street, avoiding the puddles as best she could; past the Hicks Hotel—­no sign of Jack anywhere—­past the factory fence, until she reached the railroad, where she stopped, gathered her bedraggled skirts in her hand and then sped on over the cross-ties like a swallow, her little feet scarce touching the cinders.

Jack had caught sight of the flying girl as she gained the railroad and awaited her approach; he supposed she was the half-crazed wife or daughter of some workman, bringing news of fresh disaster, until she approached near enough for him to note the shape and size of her boots and the way the hat and veil framed her face.  But it was not until she uttered a cry of agony and ran straight toward him, that he sprang forward to meet her and caught her in his aims to keep her from falling.