Once or twice Gideon looked up, roused from his reverie by the rustling of the trees as the gusts shook them, and suddenly the sky was rent by a flash of lightning and a peal of thunder, followed by the heavy rattle of the rainstorm.
“Hark at the night, father!” she said, raising her eyes from the book, but only for a moment.
“Ay, Una,” he said, “some of the old elms will fall to-night. Woodman Lightning strikes with a keen ax.”
Suddenly there came another sound which, coming in an interval of comparative quiet, caused Una to look up with surprise.
“Halloa there! open the door.”
Gideon sprang to his feet, his face pale with anger.
“Go to your room, Una,” he said.
She rose and moved across the room to obey, but before she had passed up the stairs the woodman had opened the door, and the voice came in from the outside, and she paused almost unconsciously.
“At last! What a time you have been! I’ve knocked loud enough to wake the dead. For Heaven’s sake, open the door and let me in. I’m drenched to the skin.”
“This is not an inn, young sir.”