Betsey stopped to draw breath and survey what she had done. The peas and onions showed unbroken rows, the beans had been little damaged, the bulk of the garden's crop had been saved. It was only then that she realized how excited she had been and how wet and weary she was. She jumped with startled suddenness when a voice spoke behind her.
"You've done that none so bad," it said slowly. "There's not many that's so willing to keep a garden from being ruined by the rain and fewer yet would have the wits to know how."
She turned to see Michael Martin sitting on an upturned bucket, smoking calmly away at his stump of a black pipe, rain dripping from the rim of his battered hat.
"I remembered seeing you carry off the rain in the same way last week," Betsey answered, "so I thought I'd try it myself. But I didn't know that you were anywhere near."
"That was but an April shower," he rejoined, "such as a stiff old man could get the better of, but I've known this long time that I wasn't able any more to fight one of these unseasonable thunderstorms. The ground here lies well for the sun but ill for the rain, as I'm always telling Miss Miranda. She'll be glad and thankful that you have saved her crop! And how it did rain, as though it were Saint Swithin's Day itself!"
