“Oh, it is only wetting one’s feet,” said Will. “We are quite dry upstairs.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” said the artist. “My word! It is coming down. How it hisses! But you are right: it won’t last long.”
In less than half an hour the sky was nearly clear again, but water enough had fallen to make the stream which rushed by their feet rise full five inches, bringing forth the remark from Josh that they were getting it warmly higher up in the hills.
Possibly he alluded to the lightning, for flash after flash divided the heavens in zig-zag lines, though none seemed to come near them, and they were soon after tramping on, wet-footed only, back towards Vicarage, cottage, and mill.
“I say, hark at the fall!” cried Will, as they neared the spot where they had picked up their friend.
“Yes, it is coming down,” said Josh. “Well, your father wanted it.”
“Yes,” said Will; “the dam was getting low. I say, Mr Manners, I told old Mother Waters to get her frying-pan ready, for there’d be some fish.”
“Yes, and you were right this time,” said the artist; “but I’m not going to take in all these. Here, Will, pick out four brace of the best.”
“Shan’t!” said Will, shortly. “We get quite as many as we want. Take them all in yourself. One moment—send Mr Carlile up some instead. Here, come on; it’s going to rain again. My! Isn’t the fall thundering down!”
Will was right. Another heavy shower was coming over from the hills; but it did not overtake the party before they had all reached home, and then Nature made up for a long dry time by opening all her reservoirs, to fill pool, gully, and lynn, the waters roaring for hours down the echoing vale, till the next morning the placid stream was one foaming torrent that seemed to threaten to bear away every projecting rock that stood in its way, while every sluice was opened at the mill to relieve the pressure of the overburdened dam.