“That would be the last thing to do,” said I.
“Well, let’s do it first, then,” said she, all unconscious of the witticism.
The black clouds had been coming swiftly and now in the southwest we heard the noise of rain. We could see it falling on Egerton and could mark its approach up the hills to where we were standing.
The flashes of lightning grew more blinding and the thunder claps followed more and more quickly. We were in for a wetting, that was sure.
Minerva threw herself on her face in the soft moss and began to pray, “Oh, Lawd,” said she; “Don’t send any messengers to take me, out here in the country. Let me go back to the city befo’—Oh, Lawdy.” This break in the prayer was caused by a flash and a peal that were almost simultaneous, and down in a forest of walnuts below us there was a sound of riven wood.
“Dear, I wish we were home,” said Ethel, drawing a long breath and coming close to me.
“Well, we are probably safer here than at home. It’ll be over soon.”
And now the rain came down in sheets. We were wet to the skin in two minutes. Minerva in a heap on the ground moaned and prayed and ejaculated and Ethel clung to me and shuddered at each awful peal and each blinding flash. My clothes hung in bags about me and leaked at a dozen points.
The display was magnificent, but I did not see the beauty in it that I saw when I was a boy. Then I was not frightened. Now each summer the storms seem to be worse and more awe-inspiring, and to tell the truth, so many of our friends have suffered loss from thunder storms that I would be perfectly willing to forego them in future.
The storm departed suddenly, even as it had come, and when the rumbling grew fainter Minerva rose to her feet.