Mrs. Weston did not answer him for a moment. She stood up and moved a few steps into the darkness.
“John—I smell rain!” she said.
Something in her voice made him suddenly anxious. He came quickly and put his arm round her.
“Sure you’re all right, dear?”
She did not seem to notice the question. Her face was raised to the western sky.
“Listen!” she said. “It’s coming—it’s coming, John! I’ve been feeling it for three days. I know it’s coming—now!”
A scorching breath of wind swept across their faces. Then, as they stood in tense silence, a great flash of lightning cut across the blackness of the night: and suddenly big drops fell around them. They heard them splash heavily on the iron roof of the verandah: they felt them through their thin clothes on their heated bodies. The boys gave a great shout, springing forward, and suddenly Sarah came running through the house.
“Did ye hear it?” she was saying. “Are ye there, ma’am?—did ye hear it?”
Then it was on them in a sudden torrent—blinding, rushing rain. They heard it drumming on the baked earth, beating furiously on the echoing roof. In a moment they were soaked to the skin, but no one noticed it: they stood together on the lawn, with faces upraised to the wonder of it, afraid to speak. It seemed to hiss round them, beating through the hot air. Then, as the thirsty ground grew damp, the smell of it came up to them: the unforgettable smell of rain after long drought. Another vivid flash of lightning showed them standing together, with Sarah peering anxiously from the verandah.
“Come in!” she cried. “Make her come in, sir! Are ye all gone mad?”