silence.

The old woman, made a child again by a paralytic stroke of terror, found
herself on her knees, clinging frantically to her husband. The cheek
buried in his breast felt the lurch and leap of his pounding heart.
Manlike, he found courage in his woman's fright, but his hand quivered
upon her hair; she heard his shaken voice saying:

"There, there, Maw, it's all over."

When he dared to open his eyes he was blinded and dazed like the
stricken Saul. When he could see again he found the world unchanged. The
sky was still there, and still azure; the clouds swam serenely; the road
still poured down from the unaltered hills. He tried to laugh; it was a
sickly sound he made.

"I guess that was what the fellow calls a bolt from the blue. I've often
heard of 'em, but it's the first I ever saw. No harm's done, Maw,
except to Susan's feelings. She's pickin' herself up out the dust and
hurryin' home like two-forty. I guess the concussion must have knocked
her over."

The old woman, her heart still fluttering madly, rose from her knees
with the tremulous aid of the old man and opened her eyes. She could
hardly believe that she would not find the earth an apocalyptic ruin of
uprooted hills. She breathed deeply of the relief, and her eyes ran
along the remembered things as if calling the roll. Suddenly her eyes
paused, widened. Her hand went out to clutch her husband's arm.

"Look, Paw! The oaks, the oaks!"

The lightning had leaped upon them like a mad panther, rending their
branches from them, ripping off great strips of bark, and leaving long,
gaping wounds, dripping with the white blood of trees. The lesser of the
two oaks had felt the greater blow, and would have toppled to the ground
had it not fallen across its mate; and its mate, though grievously
riven, held it up, with branches interlocking like cherishing arms.

To that human couple the tragedy of the trees they had looked upon as
the very emblems of stability was pitiful. The old woman's eyes swam
with tears. She made no shame of her sobs. The old man tried to comfort
her with a commonplace:

"I was readin' only the other day, Maw, that oaks attract the lightning
more than any other trees," and then he broke down. "Father always
called 'em the Twin Oaks, but I always called 'em you and me."

The panic-racked Susan came stumbling up the steps, gasping with
experiences. But the aged couple either did not hear or did not heed.
With old hand embracing old ha