He looked at the wooden stable doubtfully.
"I suppose I'll have to put him in there. I don't know but we're going to get a twister."
He unbuckled the tugs and pushed the buggy into the stable, and then, holding the sweating, stamping horse firmly by the halter, led him in, but did not take off the harness. He shut the stable-door and joined Mary, gazing up at the boiling black clouds, which cast greenish gleams. He looked around at his garden, kept fresh and full of blossom by his labours. The yellow of late summer had begun to shoot through its green, but it was still lovely, tall phlox blooming luxuriantly, and many-coloured asters. In the sick light, the foliage and flowers looked metallic, not a leaf moved. The doctor took Mary by the arm and they went in. Mrs. Lowell was shutting all the windows. It was hot as a furnace in the house. The cellar-door stood open.
"It's cooler down there," suggested Mrs. Lowell in a trembling voice.
"Well, we may have to," the doctor responded calmly, helping himself to lemonade.
Mary hurried to look out of the front windows. The passers-by were running now, teams went by at a gallop. Then it was as if a great sighing breath passed over, the trees waved and tossed their leaves, and then—the wind struck.
In an instant the air was full of tumult, of flying dust, leaves, branches, and darkened to night, with a roar like the sea in storm. All was blurred outside the windows, the house shook and seemed to shift on its foundations, blinds tore loose and crashed like gun-fire.
Mary felt a grasp on her arm, and saw her mother's face, white and scared. Mrs. Lowell tried to drag her away, shouted something. But she wrenched her arm loose, turned and ran upstairs. From the second-story windows she could see nothing but a wild whirl, the trees bent down and streaming, dim shapes in the visible darkness driving past. There was still another stair, narrow and steep, to the attic. She climbed up there. From the small window in the eaves she could see over the tree-tops. The house shook and trembled under her, the roar of the wind seemed to burst through the walls, but she crouched by the low window, heedless. She started at a touch on her shoulder, her father was there beside her. She made room for him at the window, and pointed out, turning to him a white face of terror.
The fury of the wind was lessening, the darkness was lifting. The outer fringe of the storm-cloud had swept them—but out there on the prairie, miles away, they could see now—