"I'll read to you, Susan Jane; and the storm's passing. I can count now."
"How many? How many, Janet?" A blinding flash showed around the green curtain's edge and dimmed the light of the kerosene lamp.
"One—two." The awful crash stilled the word.
"'Tain't fur enough off, Janet, to trust any! Oh! God help me! If I could only put my hands over my ears!" But the poor, helpless hands lay white and shrivelled in the woman's lap.
"Here, Susan Jane. Shut your eyes tight and lean your head upon my shoulder. There! Now when I see the flash I will cover your ears. That will help."
"Janet,"—a mildness stole into the peevish, whining voice,—"Janet, times is, when I see that Billy warn't all wrong in his bringin' of you up. He's sort o' left the softness like a baby in you." The hidden eyes did not see the glare, but the thin form quivered as the girl's firm hands were pressed over the sensitive ears.
"It's kinder muffled-like," panted the woman. "In between, Janet, can you say any of it?"
"Your chapter, Susan?"
"Yes. David knows the most of it, an' nights, bad nights, he says it when he ain't so plumb sleepy he can't."
"I'll say what I can, Susan Jane." The gray head nestled close to the strong young shoulder. The nagging woman rested, breathing deep. The fierce storm was rolling away; darkness was giving place, outside, to the sunset glow which, during all the terror and gloom, had lain waiting.