here was a big storm brewing at Sweet-Waters. The
sunlight was dulled--the leaves hung listless. Over the mountain just
behind the house a huge cloud of thunderous blue-black was swelling
slowly. Now and then came a flitter of lightning--a muffled detonation
far away. Bobby was very much afraid of thunderstorms. But he was now
five years old. Sophy could not bear it that her boy should be afraid of
anything. She took him in her arms and went out to watch the coming
tempest.

"See, Bobby man," she said. "The world's asleep. Now the Storm is coming
to wake her up."

"I 'spec she'd wavver sleep," said Bobby doubtfully.

He gazed in awe at the great cedars, so black and sullen blocked out
against the tremendous cloud. The intense stillness scared him almost as
much as the approaching hurly-burly.

Suddenly there came a violet flash, followed by a bellowing blare of
thunder. At the same time a sibilation of leaves ran through the sultry
air.

"Le's we _go_, muvvah! Le's we _go_!" urged Bobby in a small voice.

"Not yet, sweetheart. It's so splendid out here. See that big cloud come
flying! It's like Sinbad's roc in the fairy tale. Don't you remember?"

"I don't like wocs," said Bobby falteringly.

Now the wind fell on them with a shout. The trees tossed. They bowed
wildly, almost to the sunburnt earth. Twigs and leaves spun through the
air. White fringes streamed from the inky cloud; then lightning--the sky
blazed with a gigantic frond of fire. A pulse stroke--then a shattering,
re-echoing roar.

Bobby pressed hard against his mother's breast. He was too much a man to
howl, but his heart was as water within him.

"Le's go _now_, muvvah," he whispered.

"Just a minute more, darling. Don't you want to see the rain come over
the mountain? Hark! You can hear it--hundreds of little glass-slippered
feet, like Cinderella's--running--running----"

This idea fascinated Bobby for a second, but another blast of thunder
was too much for him. He began to tremble.

"Darling," coaxed Sophy, "surely you aren't afraid of God's own
thunder?"

"Don't like Dod," said Bobby.

"You mustn't say that, sweetheart. God made the thunder, but he made you
and mother, too. He loves you."

"_El pias minga a mi_" (He doesn't please me), said Bobby firmly.

Now the rain swirled over the mountain. In grey-white, hissing clouds it
came, as though the earth were red-hot, and the cold drops burst into
steam as they smote it. Sophy ran into