He took a chair beside her and they watched the lightning play above the black jumble of hills to the east. Sally uttered hardly a syllable. When she spoke at all, the words came jerkily. Lafe leaned over once to brush some sparks of his cigarette from his coat. A delicate perfume reached him.
"The river," he said, clearing his throat, "the river'll be way up. Bridge is like to go out."
"I'm afraid so. Oh, dear! Tom promised he'd come home to-night, too."
"Come home to-night? Why, it's thirty miles."
"I know it. But he's never failed to keep his word yet," she said.
"He won't come home to-night."
A writhing fork of lightning leaped from east to north. There was no thunder. They sat tensely quiet and the rain dripped sadly from the roof.
"No, he won't come home to-night," he said in a hoarse voice. "He can't."
"Sally!" he breathed, bending toward her. "Sally!"