Outside the darkness of the coming storm pressed close, the wind was straining at the leash, the lightning darted and the thunder rolled.
“The storm,” murmured Mary-Clare, “the storm! It is the breaking up of summer!”
The stale cakes and the hot tea refreshed the three, and after an hour Mary-Clare seemed quite herself. She went to the door and looked out into the heart of the storm. The red lightning ran zigzag through the blackness. It seemed like the glad summer, mad with fear, seeking a way through the sleet and rain.
Bodily bruised and weary, mentally exhausted and groping, Mary-Clare still felt that strange freedom she had experienced while Larry was devastating all that she had believed in, and for which she had given of her best.
She felt as one must who, escaping from an overwhelming flood, looks upon the destruction and wonders at her own escape. But she had escaped! That became, presently, the one gripping fact. She had escaped and she would find safety somewhere.
The late sunset after the storm was glorious. The clear gold that a mighty storm often leaves in its wake was like a burnished shield. The breeze was icy in its touch; the bared trees startled one by the sudden change in their appearance––the gale had torn their colour and foliage from them. Starkly they stood forth against the glowing sky.
And then Mary-Clare led the way down the trail––her 221 leaf-strewn, hidden trail. She held Noreen’s hand in hers but she leaned upon Jan-an. As they descended Mary-Clare planned.
“When we get home, Jan-an, home to the yellow house, I want you to go for Peneluna.”
From all the world, Mary-Clare desired the old understanding woman.
“I guess you mean Aunt Polly,” Jan-an suggested.