“I think so,” John Weston said. His arm was round his wife: he picked her up suddenly and carried her to the verandah. “There you are, Sarah—take care of her,” he said. “She’s soaking wet—soaking wet, thank God! Go in, kiddies!” He turned and strode out into the storm.
“Come in yourself, sir!” Sarah cried. “Aren’t ye wet enough?”
“I don’t think I’ll be wet enough if it goes on for a week!” he said. He felt Billy beside him, catching at his hand. “Go in, Sonnie—it’s enough for one of us to be mad!”
“I’m goin’ to stay with you!” Billy uttered. “I’ll get wet with you. I’m wet already!”
His father put his arm round the thin little shoulders in the soaked shirt.
“Ah, well, then, we’ll go in together, old Son,” he said gently. “Go and change now, all of you.”
He stood awhile on the verandah, looking out into the storm. The lightning flashed, and thunder followed it in long rattling peals: but the drumming of the rain never ceased, and every drop was music to him. Presently he turned and went through the hall to his wife’s room.
She lay on a couch near the window, listening to the roar on the roof. Her face was very pale, but she smiled up at him.
“Well!” she said. “And you bought Murphy’s sheep to-day!”
He bent down and kissed her foot.