“Providential!” Rosamund raised amazed eyebrows.
“Providential,” echoed John firmly. “You are thinking of Antony, who is by this time, I trust, safely returned to the bosom of his family, or at all events in some shelter as friendly as ours. I am thinking of the courage the storm brought in its wake.”
“Oh?” she queried.
“You mustn’t,” said John pathetically, “pretend that you don’t understand me. Explanations would be painful. I should stand confessed as a coward of the deepest dye.”
“Nonsense,” she smiled. And then she looked towards the opening of the shed. “Come,” she laughed; “the rain has nearly stopped.”
They came out into the open.
“The country,” said John, “has had its face washed, and is thankful.” Then he pointed to the northeast. “Look,” he said, “our benediction!”
A double-arched rainbow stretched across the sky, brilliant, luminous, backgrounded by the retreating clouds. They paused, to look. Scientists may find excellent explanations of this wonder; but to some, at least, it will ever stand for what it has stood through age-old centuries—the symbol of hope.
John might have remained gazing indefinitely, or, at all events, until the brilliant arc had faded had not Rosamund brought him to a remembrance of things present.
“Come,” she said. “Antony.”