"They'll be along at supper time," declared Betty.
"Besides, maybe that hat is just kept there to scare tramps," said Grace. "I've often heard of a lone woman borrowing a man's hat—when she didn't have—didn't want, or couldn't get a man."
"That's so," admitted Betty. "But, speaking of supper reminds me—what are we going to do about ours?"
"It is getting nearly time," murmured Mollie. "But we simply can't tramp through that rain to your sister's house, Grace."
"No, we'll have to wait. Oh, dear! Isn't this a queer predicament to be in, and not a chocolate left?" she wailed, as she looked in the box. "Empty!" she cried quite tragically.
The rain still descended. It was not, for the moment, pouring as hard as at first, but there was a steadiness and persistency to it that did not encourage one in the belief that it would soon stop. The big drops dashed against the windows intermittently, as the wind rose and fell.
Around one angle of the house the gale howled quite fiercely, and in the parlor, where there was an open fireplace, it came down in gusts, sighing mournfully out into the room, with its old horsehair furniture, the pictures of evidently dead-and-gone relatives, in heavy gold frames, while in other frames were fearfully and wonderfully made wreaths of flowers—wax in some cases, and cloth in the remainder, being the medium in which nature was rather mocked than simulated.
The girls stood at the windows, staring drearily out. They could just see a house down the road on the other side. In the other direction no residences were visible—just an expanse of rain-swept fields. And there seemed to be no passers-by—no teams on the winding country road.
"Oh, but this is lonesome," said Amy, with a sigh.
"Girls, what are we to do?" demanded Mollie.