Then, with a swish and a splash, the rain began. It came down in gusty torrents, and dashed in at the open windows like a spray.
Molly and Marjorie jumped up and flew to shut the windows, but Stella remained crouched in a pathetic little heap.
"Somebody will come to get us," whispered Molly, trying to be hopeful and to cheer the others.
"No, they won't," said Marjorie, despairingly; "for Grandma thinks I'm over at Stella's, and your mother thinks you're there, too."
"Yes, but Stella's mother will hunt us up; somebody is SURE to come," persisted Molly.
"No, she won't," said a weak little voice; "for I told Mother that we might stay home this afternoon, and we might go over to Molly's. And she'll think we're over there."
"It wouldn't matter if the ladder WAS up," said Molly, "for we couldn't go out in this pouring rain, and we might get struck by lightning, too."
"Under a tree is the very worst place to be in a thunderstorm," said Stella, lifting her white, little face, and staring at the girls with big, scared eyes.
Just then another terrible crash and flash made them all grasp each other again, and then, without further restraint, they all cried together.
The storm increased. The winds simply raged, and though the old maple-trees were too sturdy to shake much, yet the little house swayed some, and all about could be heard the cracking and snapping of branches.