"I tell you what it is," said old Mr. Cunningham, "that big bank of clouds hanging over that mountain means rain, and plenty of it, I believe."
"I think you are right," said Uncle Harry, "and if we do have a three days' rain, as we sometimes do, we shall have to use every effort to keep things humming, and so forget the storm."
They had been sitting on the piazza, and talking of the days of uninterrupted sunshine that they had enjoyed, when, in a few minutes, the blue sky had been hidden, as if by a thin, pearly veil, while hanging over the mountain was the mass of leaden clouds that had seemed to prophesy rain.
"Oh, I don't want it to rain," wailed Floretta, who stood near them, her pretty face puckered into a most unpleasant frown.
"I'm afraid the weather can't be arranged especially for you," said Mr. Cunningham.
He, like all the guests, was very tired of the child who was either whining, or boisterously, rudely gay. Just at this point, Mrs. Paxton came out on the piazza, a small note-book and pencil in her hand.
She hastened toward the two gentlemen, and smiled as if she were conferring a favor.
"With the chance of a stormy evening, we are trying to arrange a program that will give us a pleasant evening indoors," she said. "I am sure you will help me."
She had smiled at both, and old Mr. Cunningham, who heartily disliked her, was only too glad to reply.