“Moreover,” broke in Karl, who refused to be left out of the conversation, “Johann Klucker’s cat was sitting with its back to the stove last evening.”
This bit of homely philosophy brought a ripple of laughter from Helen, whereupon Karl explained.
“Cats are very wise, fräulein. Johann Klucker’s cat is old. Therefore she is skilled in reading the tokens of the weather. A cat hates wind and rain, and makes her arrangements accordingly. If she washes herself smoothly, the next twelve hours will be fine. If she licks against the grain, it will be wet. When she lies with her back to the fire, there will surely be a squall. When her tail is up and her coat rises, look out for wind.”
“Johann Klucker’s cat has settled the dispute,” said Bower gravely in English. “A squall it is,—a most suitable prediction for a cat,—and I am once more rehabilitated in your esteem, I hope?”
A cold iridescence suddenly illumined the gloomy interior of the hut. It gave individuality to each particle of sleet whirling past the door. Helen thought that the sun had broken through the storm clouds for an instant; but Bower said quietly:
“Are you afraid of lightning?”
“Not very. I don’t like it.”
“Some people collapse altogether when they see it. Perhaps when forewarned you are forearmed.”
A low rumble boomed up the valley, and the mountain echoes muttered in solemn chorus.
“We are to be spared none of the scenic accessories, then?” said Helen.