We were sitting in the shade of the rocks one very warm
afternoon,--Hilliard was reading aloud,--when there came a sudden peal
of thunder, and presently a flash of lightning. "Oh, we're going to have
a storm!" I exclaimed. "I am so glad! now I can see the ocean in a
storm,--you said it was magnificent then. Why, what are you doing?"
"We must get in the house as quickly as possible." Hilliard rose to his
feet as he spoke, and began hastily gathering up the books and cushions,
and the big sun umbrella.
"But the rain hasn't come yet, and I _do_ want to watch the water,--see,
it's beginning to get white-caps," I said. "We can reach the house in a
few minutes."
As I spoke there was another flash of lightning and a long roll of
thunder, but neither was severe. To my great astonishment Hilliard
shrank back against the rock, and shielded his face with the cushion he
held in his hand; I could see that he was very pale. "Oh, come, _come_!"
he begged; "oh, let us get to the house at once!"
"What!" I flashed out scornfully, "are you _afraid_ of a thunder storm?"
He didn't answer; he just stood there flattening himself against the
rock, his face deadly white, his eyes almost closed, and his lips set
tight together.
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