"Promise!"
"Well then—oh, come over here. There's that horrid Sadie Jones trying to hear what we're saying," and the two girls, arm in arm, strolled off to a distant part of the court.
The afternoon session wore on. The day grew warmer, the sky became overcast, and there was the dull muttering of distant thunder. There seemed a tension in the air—as if something was going to snap. Doubtless you have often felt it—a sensation as though pins and needles were pricking you all over. As though you wanted to scream—to cry out—against an uncertain sensation that gripped you.
In the various classrooms the droning voices were heard—of the pupils in recitations, or of the teachers as they patiently explained some point.
The thunder rumbled nearer and nearer. Now and then a vivid flash of lightning split the sombre clouds. At such times the nervous girls would jump in their seats, and there would follow hysterical, though quickly subdued, bursts of laughter from their more stolid mates, or the boys.
The four who were to go on the walking tour together were in the Latin class. Amy was standing up, translating—or trying to translate—a passage from Caesar. She halted and stammered, though usually she got perfect marks in this study.
"Take it a bit slower, Miss Stonington," suggested Miss Greene, the teacher. "That is very good. You should know that word—nequaquam—take your time."
"Nequaquam" said Amy faintly, "not ever—"
There was a titter from Alice Jallow, in which Kittie Rossmore joined.
Poor Amy looked distressed. Tears came into her eyes.
There shot across the black heavens a vivid flash of lightning, and a bursting crash so promptly came echoing that nearly every one of the girls started from her desk, and a number screamed, while even the boys were startled.