"No," said Polly, "and I don't believe there'll be another as bad."
"Oh, come in here. Ooh!" cried Alexia, in muffled accents, as she huddled up against the clothes.
"Oh, Polly!" It was Miss Rhys: her embroidery, cast aside at the sudden storm-burst, was dragging behind her, and she was wringing her hands. "Did you ever see anything so dreadful?"
"I don't believe there'll be another as bad," said Polly again, finding nothing more of consolation to offer.
"And where is Alexia?" And without waiting for an answer, Miss Rhys paced nervously up and down the room, still wringing her hands. "And of course there will be more; there, there it comes," and she ran, the embroidery-piece still hanging to her gown, into the closet.
"Oh, Aunt," cried Alexia, with a squeal, "you scared me 'most to death; I thought I was struck!"
"Why, are you here, Alexia?" gasped Miss Rhys, when she could recover herself enough to speak. "Well, this is truly a dreadful storm," and she clutched her with shaking fingers.
"Yes, I am here," said Alexia. "Don't pinch so, Aunt—ow! My arm is all black and blue, I know it is."
"It's no time to think of such little things, Alexia," replied her aunt severely; "it may kill us both."
"Well, that's no reason I should be all pinched to death," grumbled Alexia, forgetting the thunderstorm in her present discomfort and edging off as well as she could. "The closet is dreadfully small, Aunt."