"He's coming inland to-day," she said; "he's tired of waiting for us."
Ethan had picked up the book, and read on with a curious under-current of excitement. As he turned the leaves he would throw out a swift glance, almost like one running for his life who keeps an eye on an enemy.
The flying cloud squadrons had rallied. They were drawn up now in serried masses, black and threatening. The sun had fallen back overpowered, vanquished utterly. Such noonday darkness in the lands of sunshine is a commonplace of sub-tropical climate, but to Ethan it came to-day as a portent and a warning.
Val moved from window to window, watching the great red-wood trees swaying and lashing, and taking the wind in her face.
Ethan closed his own window, and suggested that the others be put down.
"No, no," she opposed him, almost sharply.
"What's the matter with you to-day?" he said at last, unable to endure her restlessness any longer. "Can't you follow the story—can't you think when there's a thunderstorm?"
"Oh yes," she said; "I can think best of all then."
As she stood looking up in a kind of ecstasy, suddenly the lightning played about her. Involuntarily Ethan shrank and shut his eyes in that first instant. In the stupendous crash that followed he sprang up. Was the house struck?