“Nothing but a heavy old pounding mill,” replied Marion.
“Why should one wish to store a pounding mill in an attic? They are always used out of doors.”
“I don’t know,” said the girl thoughtfully. “Might be sort of an heirloom.”
“Rather ponderous I should say.”
Marion caught her breath. Uncle Billie had said that old block of a pounding mill was uncommonly heavy. Here was food for thought. The first thing in the morning she would go up there. She would—
At this moment her thoughts were cut short by a sudden burst of thunder that went rolling and reverberating down the mountain.
“We’re in for a storm!” she exclaimed, dashing toward the door.
They were in for a storm indeed; such a storm as had not been known on Laurel Branch in years. For an hour Marion sat by the doorway watching the play of lightning as it flashed from peak to peak on Big Black Mountain. The deafening peals of thunder, like the roar of gigantic cannons in some endless battle, came rumbling down from the hills to shake the very cabin floor. Through all this one thought was uppermost in Marion’s mind, one question repeated itself again and again:
“Where is Florence and little Hallie?”