"I'm afraid not, dear," he answered.
"Doesn't God know we want to help the poor children?" she asked suddenly, a surprised look coming into her eyes.
"Yes, yes, dear; of course he knows, child."
"Then why does he let it rain?" cried Phronsie, in a hurt voice.
"Oh, because, Pet, we must have rain, else the flowers wouldn't grow, you know."
"They're all grown," said Phronsie, trying to peer out into the thick twilight between the great splashes of rain running down the window over toward the garden, "and now we can't have our party to-morrow, Grandpapa," she added sorrowfully.
"No, it would be quite too wet, after this downpour, even if it cleared to-night," said the old gentleman decidedly. "Well, Phronsie, child, we must just accept the matter philosophically."
"What's philo—that big word, Grandpapa?" she asked, turning away from her effort to catch sight of the flower-beds, off in the distance, gay with the wealth of blooms saved for the hoped-for festivities of the morrow, and she put her arm around his neck.
"Oh, that? It was a pretty large word to use to you, and that's a fact," said the old gentleman, with a little laugh. He was having rather a hard time of it to conceal his dismay at the blow to all the plans and preparations so finely in progress for the garden party. "Well, it means we must make the best of it all, and not fret."
"Oh!" said Phronsie. Then she turned back to her window again, and surveyed the driving storm.