h, that she had really been able to see a wee bit of a way
into that Heavenly City which she had been taught was high above her,
behind all that sky, in the blinding brightness.

But Arethusa's aunts had altogether different ideas, not one of them
(save perhaps Miss Asenath, somewhat) understanding in the least this
strange and illogical desire to watch the play of the elements out of
doors when she could be safe inside a house. It was always their very
first move, when a storm was threatened, to bid her remain indoors.

To-day though, so far, the gods had seemed to be with her; she had
escaped without being seen. And if her luck continued to hold, she
might get clear away to Miss Asenath's Woods before her Aunt 'Liza
caught her and haled her back. For they had not had such a glorious
storm as this would be, if its promise were made good, for months and
months.

There was a flash of lightning that seemed to play all about the girl
running swiftly down the walk; a crash of thunder that seemed to make
every window pane in the house rattle in echo, and a few, big,
splashing drops of rain fell.

Arethusa stretched her arms high and stood on tiptoe to meet them. She
shook her hair loose from its plait and threw back her head, loving it
all--the wind and the dark sky and the tense feeling of readiness for
the storm with which everything seemed charged--with an almost pagan
joy. She even began a dance, a fantastic sort of lonely quadrille (if
it could be given any special name), there on the flagged walk by the
end of the house.

"'Thusa!"

The call came very faint and far away.

Then--"'Thusa!"

Louder this time, and much nearer, but Arethusa heeded it not if she
heard; her dance continued uninterrupted. She swayed like a tall lily
to the wind, with a few little steps one way and then a few little
steps the other; holding out her cotton skirts; her hair blown all
about her like a great, red cloud. There was something elfin, something
wild and woodsy, in her manner of dancing; the nymph whose name she
bore might so have welcomed a storm in her woods of ancient Greece.

Then--"A----r--e-thusa!"

And Miss Eliza Redfield's own energetic little person, as trig and trim
as a tiny ship with all sails closely reefed, even in this boisterous
wind, bore down upon her niece. Miss Eliza's grey crown of glory,
parted in the middle with precision and to the exactitude of a hair,
was totally unruffled and remained drawn down ac