"I think so," said Mr. Filbert, a little thin old man sitting over in the corner and leaning forward over his cane. He spoke cautiously, as if not quite sure. "Yes, it is a bad storm," he repeated decidedly. "Where is your aunt?"
"She's up in the closet," said Alexia, pulling the sofa-cushion over her own and Polly's face as well. "There, we can't see it at any rate, if we are going to be killed."
"Up in the closet?" repeated Mr. Filbert.
"Yes. Oh, Polly, do you suppose it's lightening and thundering now?"—as the two girls cuddled up closer together on the roomy old sofa, the cushion crowded up over eyes and ears.
"I suppose so," said Polly, very much wishing she could say "No."
"Oh, dear me! I'm smothered to death," grumbled Alexia, "and I'm so hot"—wriggling discontentedly.
"So am I," said Polly.
"What did you say? Your aunt was in the closet?" little old Mr. Filbert was asking; and receiving no reply, he kept on.
"Oh, do hear him," whispered Alexia, back of the sofa-cushion; "he is so tiresome, asking the same thing over and over."
"Well, do answer him," said Polly.