Doctor Hall said that it might be that a rainfall would benefit Mary. In her delirium she plainly mingled the suffering of her burns with the remembrance of the drought that parched her beloved blossoms. She was so sensitive, he added, to atmospheric conditions that she might be harmed by the dryness in the air.
After this Jane and Florimel watched the sky for a cloud as the shipwrecked sailor in the desert island of fiction scans it for a sail. On the third day after Doctor Hall had said that rain might help Mary toward recovery, they saw the fleecy heads of clouds in the west, white at their base, golden in the summer sunshine on their tops, the clouds which look as if one could plunge into them and fill the hands with their masses, the clouds which presage thunder. Later in the day the sky darkened into a metallic, cloudless sheet, blackened in the west to murky thickness, with a hint of yellow.
“It’s coming, madrina! Do you really think it will matter to Mary?” Jane implored.
“Oh, Jane dear, how can one tell? And I’m dreadfully afraid of lightning!” Mrs. Garden cried. These days of awful anxiety had told on her; the little woman looked wan and thin. It was the first time in her life that she had ever been called upon to live intensely and to face a real grief.
The storm broke with swift fury and raged till it had had its will of Vineclad. Then the electrical forces marched on, leaving behind them the steady, refreshing, permeating rain that the garden begged for, and for which its lover, Mary Garden, deliriously prayed.
As if Doctor Hall had been right, Mary sank into silence after the rain set in and, for the first time in several days, lay still. The beneficent rain fell quietly all the rest of the day and all night. The garden revived under it, its betterment visible from the windows, and Mary slept, with its gentle lullaby playing on the piazza roof and window panes. The Gardens dared not be glad, yet relief sounded in each voice in the household. Mr. and Mrs. Moulton and Mark, coming over through the blessed wetness, plucked up heart a little. Mr. Moulton alluded to his book for the first time since Mary was burned. If Mary were to recover, then books and science would be once more possible, worth while.
In the morning Mary opened her eyes and smiled into her mother’s, the ones in range with hers when she wakened. She touched her bandages and drew her brows trying to recall their meaning.
“Oh, now I know!” she said. “I remember. But I think I am better; I feel quite a different girl. Do you think I might have a nice little egg, madrina?”
“Oh, Mary, Molly darling! oh, my sweet, sweet girl! You may have all the eggs in the world, and all the chickens!” cried Mrs. Garden, falling on her knees in a frenzy of grateful joy.
Mary closed her eyes again with a tiny smile. “Too many—at once,” she murmured. Anne would not let any one but herself prepare the tray with Mary’s breakfast that morning. Jane and Florimel almost quarrelled with her for driving them off, but Anne was relentless.