"Perhaps the flowers like it," she said, after a pause, when nothing was heard but the beating of the rain against the glass; "maybe they are thirsty, Grandpapa."
"Yes, maybe," assented Grandpapa absently.
"And if God wants it to rain, why we must be glad, mustn't we, Grandpapa, if he really wants it?"
"Yes, yes, child," said the old gentleman hastily.
"Then I'm glad," said Phronsie, with a long sigh, and she clambered down from her chair, "and let's find Polly and tell her so, Grandpapa."
Over in the library there was a dismal group. Joel was fighting valiantly with a flood of tears, doubling up his little fists and glaring at Percy and Van at the least intimation of a remark to him. Little Davie had succumbed long ago, and now, crammed up in a small heap in the corner back of the sofa, was rivaling the storm outside, in the flood of tears he supplied.
Jasper crowded his hands in his pockets, marching up and down the long room. Polly, who was swallowing hard, as if her throat hurt her, wouldn't look at one of the boys. Little Dick was openly wailing in his mother's arms.
"Oh, shut up that, kid, will you?" cried Percy, crossly, over at him.
"Percy, Percy," said his mother gently.
"Well, he needn't boo-hoo like a baby," said Percy; "we've all got to give up the garden party."