Already the huge rock had gone on down through the porch and disappeared into the growing pond of water in the front yard. The house was dipping to the weight of our steps as though it might float off the minute we left. Father got a rope from the wagon and tied it through the broken corner of the house and tethered it to the barn. 'No use losing the lumber if we don't have to,' he said. By the time the sun was fully up, the house was floating off its foundation rocks. There was a pond filling all the house yard, back and front, extending along the hill, up to the dipping place, and turning into a narrow stream going the other way, following the hill for a while then dividing our dying orchard and flowing down toward the dry river bed. Father and I pulled the house slowly over toward the barn until it grated solid ground again. Mama had cleaned Timmy up. He didn't seem to be hurt except for his face and shoulder being peeled raw. She put olive oil on him again and used one of Merry's petticoats to bandage his face. He lay deeply unconscious all of that day while we watched the miracle of water growing in a dry land. The pond finally didn't grow any wider, but the stream widened and deepened, taking three of our dead trees down to the river. The water was clearing now and was deep enough over the spring that it didn't bubble any more that we could see. There was only a shivering of the surface so that circles ran out to the edge of the pond, one after another. Father went down with a bucket and brought it back brimming over. We drank the cold, cold water and Mama made a pack to put on Timmy's head. Timmy stirred but he didn't waken. It wasn't until evening when we were settling down to a scratch-meal in the barn that we began to realize what had happened. 'We have water!' Father cried suddenly. 'Streams in the desert!' 'It's an artesian well, isn't it?' I asked. 'Like at Las Lomitas? It'll go on flowing from here on out, won't it?' 'That remains to be seen,' Father said. 'But it looks like a good one. Tomorrow I must ride to Tolliver's Wells and tell them we have water. They must be almost out by now! 'Then we don't have to move?' I asked. 'Not as long as we have water,' said Father. 'I wonder if we have growing time enough to put in a kitchen garden-' I turned quickly. Timmy was moving. His hands were on the bandage, exploring it cautiously. 'Timmy,' I reached for his wrist. 'It's all right, Timmy. You just got peeled raw. We had to bandage you again.' 'The-the water-' His voice was barely audible. 'It's all over the place!' I said. 'It's floated the house off the foundations and you should see the pond! And the stream! And it's cold!' 'I'm thirsty,' he said. 'I want a drink, please.' He drained the cup of cold water and his lips turned upward in a ghost of a smile. 'Shall waters break out!' 'Plenty of water,' I laughed. Then I sobered. 'What were you doing out in it, anyway? Mama and Father were sitting on the floor beside us now. 'I had to lift the dirt out,' he said, touching my wrist. 'All night I lifted. It was hard to hold back the loose dirt so it wouldn't slide back into the hole. I sat on the porch and lifted the dirt until the rock was there.' He sighed and was silent for a minute. 'I was not sure I had strength enough. The rock was cracked and I could feel the water pushing, hard, hard, under. I had to break the rock enough to let the water start through. It wouldn't break! I called on the Power again and tried and tried. Finally a piece came loose and flew up. The force of the water-it was like-like-blasting. I had no strength left. I went unconscious.' 'You dug all that out alone!' Father took one of Timmy's hands and looked at the smooth palm. 'We do not always have to touch to lift and break,' said Timmy. 'But to do it for long and heavy takes much strength.' His head rolled weakly. 'Thank you, Timothy,' said Father. 'Thank you for the well.' So that's why we didn't move. That's why Promise Pond is here to keep the ranch green. That's why this isn't Fool's Acres any more but Full Acres. That's why Cahilla Creek puzzles people who try to make it Spanish. Even Father doesn't know why Timmy and I named the stream Cahilla. The pond had almost swallowed up the little box before we remembered it. That's why the main road across Desolation Valley goes through our ranch now for the sweetest, coldest water in the Territory. That's why our big new house is built among the young black walnut and weeping willow trees that surround the pond. That's why it has geraniums windowsill high along one wall. That's why our orchard has begun to bear enough to start being a cash crop. And that's why, too, that one day a wagon coming from the far side of Desolation Valley made camp on the camping grounds below the pond. We went down to see the people after supper to exchange news. Timmy's eyes were open now, but only light came into them, not enough to see by. The lady of the wagon tried not to look at the deep scars on the side of Timmy's face as her man and we men talked together. She listened a little too openly to Timmy's part of the conversation and said softly to Mama, her whisper spraying juicily, 'He your boy?' 'Yes, our boy,' said Mama, 'but not born to us.' 'Oh,' said the woman. 'I thought be talked kinda foreign.' Her voice was critical. 'Seems like we're gettin' overrun with foreigners. Like that sassy girl in Margin.' 'Oh?' Mama fished Merry out from under the wagon by her dress tail. 'Yes,' said the woman. 'She talks foreign too, though they say not as much as she used to. Oh, them foreigners are smart enough! Her aunt says she was sick and had to learn to talk all over again, that's why she sounds like that.' The woman leaned confidingly toward Mama, lowering her voice. 'But I heard in a roundabout way that there's something queer about that girl. I don't think she's really their niece. I think she came from somewhere else. I think she's really a foreigner!' 'Oh?' said Mama, quite unimpressed and a little bored. 'They say she does funny things and Heaven knows her name's funny enough. I ask you! Doesn't the way these foreigners push themselves in-' 'Where did your folks come from?' asked Mama, vexed by the voice the lady used for 'foreigner.' The lady reddened. 'I’m native born!' she said, tossing her head. 'Just because my parents-It isn't as though England was-' She pinched her lips together. 'Abigail Johnson for a name is a far cry from Marnie Lytha Something- or-other!' 'Lytha!' I heard Timmy's cry without words. Lytha? He stumbled toward the woman, for once his feet unsure. She put out a hasty hand to fend him off and her face drew up with distaste. 'Watch out!' she cried sharply. 'Watch where you're going!' 'He's blind,' Mama said softly. 'Oh,' the woman reddened again. 'Oh, well-' 'Did you say you knew a girl named Lytha?' asked Timmy faintly. 'Well, I never did have much to do with her,' said the woman, unsure of herself. 'I saw her a time or two-' Timmy's fingers went out to touch her wrist and she jerked back as though burned. 'I'm sorry,' said Timmy. 'Where are you coming from?' 'Margin,' said the woman. 'We been there a couple of months shoeing the horses and blacksmithing some.' 'Margin,' said Timmy, his hands shaking a little as he turned away. 'Thanks.' 'Well, you're welcome, I guess,' snapped the woman. She turned back to Mama, who was looking after us, puzzled. 'Now all the new dresses have-' 'I couldn't see,' whispered Timmy to me as we moved off through the green grass and willows to the orchard. 'She wouldn't let me touch her. How far is Margin?' 'Two days across Desolation Valley,' I said, bubbling with excitement. 'It's a mining town in the hills over there. Their main road comes from the other side.' 'Two days!' Timmy stopped and clung to a small tree.
