The Gentleman from Indiana - Page 87/212

"Minnie, Minnie! Like long white gowns and cowls crossing the fence."

Helen released her wrist, and put both hands on Minnie's cheeks, forcing

her around to face the pane. "You must look--you must look," she cried.

"They wouldn't do it, they wouldn't--it isn't!" Minnie cried. "They

couldn't come in the storm. They wouldn't do it in the pouring rain!"

"Yes! Such things would mind the rain!" She burst into hysterical

laughter, and Minnie, almost as unnerved, caught her about the waist.

"They would mind the rain. They would fear a storm! Ha, ha, ha! Yes--yes!

And I let him go--I let him go!"

Pressing close together, shuddering, clasping each other's waists, the two

girls peered out at the flickering landscape.

"Look!"

Up from the distant fence that bordered the northern side of Jones's

field, a pale, pelted, flapping thing reared itself, poised, and seemed,

just as the blackness came again, to drop to the ground.

"Did you see?"

But Minnie had thrown herself into a chair with a laugh of wild relief.

"My darling girl!" she cried. "Not a line of white things--just one--Mr.

Jones's old scarecrow! And we saw it blown down!"

"No, no, no! I saw the others; they were in the field beyond. I saw them!

When I looked the first time they were nearly all on the fence. This time

we saw the last man crossing. Ah! I let him go alone!"

Minnie sprang up and enfolded her. "No; you dear, imagining child, you're

upset and nervous--that's all the matter in the world. Don't worry; don't,

child, it's all right. Mr. Harkless is home and safe in bed long ago. I

know that old scarecrow on the fence like a book; you're so unstrung you

fancied the rest. He's all right; don't you bother, dear."

The big, motherly girl took her companion in her arms and rocked her back

and forth soothingly, and petted and reassured her, and then cried a

little with her, as a good-hearted girl always will with a friend. Then

she left her for the night with many a cheering word and tender caress.

"Get to sleep, dear," she called through the door when she had closed it

behind her. "You must, if you have to go in the morning--it just breaks my

heart. I don't know how we'll bear it without you. Father will miss you

almost as much as I will. Good-night. Don't bother about that old white

scarecrow. That's all it was. Good-night, dear, good-night."

"Good-night, dear," answered a plaintive little voice. Helen's hot cheek

pressed the pillow and tossed from side to side. By and by she turned the

pillow over; it had grown wet. The wind blew about the eaves and blew

itself out; she hardly heard it. Sleep would not come. She got up and

laved her burning eyes. Then she sat by the window. The storm's strength

was spent at last; the rain grew lighter and lighter, until there was but

the sound of running water and the drip, drip on the tin roof of the

porch. Only the thunder rumbling in the distance marked the storm's

course; the chariots of the gods rolling further and further away, till

they finally ceased to be heard altogether. The clouds parted

majestically, and then, between great curtains of mist, the day-star was

seen shining in the east.