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"Can't we break away the race?" "Oh, there's a way to stop it. There's the tip-trough, but it's downstairs and we can't reach the pole." "I'll go," said Dorothy. "It's outside, thee knows. Thee'll get awful wet, Dorothy." "Well, I'd just as soon be drowned as burned up. Come with me to the head of the stairs." They felt their way hand in hand in the darkness, and Dorothy went down alone.
She had forgotten about the "tip-trough," but she understood its significance. In a few moments a cascade shot out over the wheel, sending the water far into the garden. "Right over my chrysanthemum bed," sighed Dorothy. The wheel swung slower and slower, the mocking tumult subsided, and the old mill sank into sleep again.
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