They stood side by side in the darkness for a few minutes, and then a torrent of rain dashed down upon the roof like tons of solid matter, which threatened to crush the building like an egg-shell. He pushed her back, and with a great effort managed to close the big sliding-door.
“We must keep the wind out,” he said. “If we don't the mill will be blown away.”
It was now too dark for them to see each other at all, and the roar of the storm rendered speech between them almost impossible. She suddenly felt his hands grasp hers, and then he shouted, as he held them in his tight clasp: “There is a big pile of fodder over there against the wall. Come, sit down. There is no telling how long this may last, and you are already fagged out.”
She offered no resistance, and he cautiously led her through the darkness till he felt the fodder under his feet. Then he bent down and raked a quantity of it together and again took her hand.
“Sit here,” he said, gently pushing her downward. “It is dry and warm.”
He was right. The soft bed of sweet-smelling corn leaves felt very comfortable to the tired girl. He laughed out impulsively as he pulled a quantity of the fodder near to her and sat down on it, locking his arms over his knees. “This isn't so very bad, after all,” he said. “You know, it might have been a great deal worse. Jack's well housed, and this old mill has withstood a thousand storms.”
She said nothing, and he leaned nearer till his lips almost touched her ear.
“Why are you so silent?” he asked. “Are you still afraid?”
“No, but I was wondering what my mother will think,” Cynthia said. “She'll be sure we have been killed.”
“Don't worry about that,” Floyd said, cheerfully. “I gave Pole my last match, or I'd take a smoke.