It came on with the sudden violence of a thunder-clap. In a moment the tossing trees became gesticulating ghosts seen dimly through a veil of glistening rods of water sharply diagonal—nearly horizontal; and even through the musketry rattle on the window-panes they could hear the pavement hiss beneath their deluge.
"Oh, Frank dear!" murmured Jean.
Giving way to illogical tenderness, the young soldier took her hand and held it.
Of course, the least turn for hard argument would have reassured them. The storm would blow over; they could find new lovers; their father, even suppose he died, would receive suitable interment. Besides, they would be the richer by his decease. But they remained foolishly moved.
"If anything does happen to father," said Jean sorrowfully, "I shall never forgive myself."
Frank looked surprised.
"Forgive yourself—for what?"
"For not loving him more. I almost hated him yesterday."
Her voice sank very low and she looked apprehensively at her brother. But he did not rebuke her as he ought.