"Isn't it nice here?" asked Alice as she and Ruth were in their room on the morning after their arrival, getting ready for breakfast.
"It does seem so," agreed the older girl, as she leaned over with her hair hanging in front of her while she combed it out.
"Such wide, open spaces," went on Alice. "Plenty of fresh air here."
"Too much!" laughed Ruth. "Grab that waist of mine; will you, Alice? It's going out of the window on the breeze."
Alice was just in time to prevent the garment from fluttering out of the room, for the breeze was certainly strong.
As the younger girl turned back to hand her sister the waist she exclaimed:
"Oh, what a queer looking cloud! And what a funny yellow light there is, all about. Look, Ruth."
"Isn't it?" agreed Ruth, as she coiled her hair on top of her head. "It looks like a storm."
Off in the west was a bank of yellowish clouds that seemed rolling and tumbling over and over in their eagerness to advance. At the same time there was a sobbing and moaning sound to the wind.
"Oh, Alice. I think there is going to be a terrible storm," gasped Ruth a moment later, suddenly realizingly that danger impended.