But at night when the rest of the orchard was asleep, she wept silently to herself, for she wondered if it could be possible that her apples would not ripen at all.
At last summer seemed to hold her breath. Day after day the warm sunshine beat down upon the orchard, drowsy with the richness and fulness of its almost completed labor. The trees now and then stirred their heavy branches, as if suggesting that it was time to be relieved of their burden.
One day a flock of merry children came to the orchard to play. The day was cool, a gentle breeze stirred,—early fall had blown its first faint breath.
The children frolicked all day, ate their luncheon on the grass, shook down ripe apples, and with the lengthening evening shadows, began to gather up their baskets, happy and contented and ready to go home.
A cool evening breeze sprang up with sudden briskness.
"Look at that black cloud!" cried a little urchin.
Suddenly the rain began to come down with a brisk patter; the children scampered quickly under the nearest tree; the dark cloud overspread the whole sky, rain pelted down, a great wind roared through the orchard, bending the trees, and causing their branches to wave wildly and a shower of apples to fall.
"Oh, where shall we go?" cried the children. "The apples are pelting us, and the rain drives in upon us."
"Yonder under the little tree with green apples," cried one. "See how thickly leaved it is, and how low the boughs bend; we shall be well sheltered there."
