shrill squeak
in which little Joe Hawkins tried to speak very low and secretly.

"Deakin Cobb, we want to git aout! We've just time to git home if we
don't want a duckin'."

The hymn started raggedly and in a wrong pitch; and just then the great
room grew suddenly darker, and there was a low rumble of thunder.

"Mary Ogden!" exclaimed Miss Glidden, "what are you doing? They can't
go yet!"

Mary was singing as loudly and correctly as usual, but she was out in
the aisle, and the girls of that class were promptly obeying the motion
of hand and head with which she summoned them to walk out of the church.

Elder Holloway may have been only keeping time when he nodded his head,
but he was looking at Miss Glidden's class.

So was Miss Glidden, in a bewildered way, as if she, like little
Bo-peep, were losing her sheep. Mary was following a strong and sudden
impulse. Nevertheless, by the time that class was out of its pews the
next caught the idea, and believed it a prudent thing to do. They
followed in good order, singing as they went.

"The girls out first,--then the boys," said Elder Holloway, between two
stanzas. "One class at a time. No hurry."

Darker grew the air. Jack, out in front of the church, was watching
the blackest cloud he had ever seen, as it came sweeping across the sky.

The people walked out calmly enough, but all stopped singing at the
door and ran their best.

"Run, Molly! Run for home!" shouted Jack, seeing Mary coming. "It's
going to be an awful storm."

[Illustration: _"Run for Home."_]

Inside the church there was much hesitation, for a moment; but Miss
Glidden followed her class without delay, and all the rest followed as
fast as they could, and were out in half the usual time. Joe Hawkins
heard Jack's words to Molly.

"Run, boys," he echoed. "Cut for home! There's a fearful storm
coming!"

He was right. Great drops were already falling now and then, and there
was promise of a torrent to follow.

"I don't want to spoil these clothes," said Jack, uneasily. "I need
these to wear in the city. The storm isn't here yet, though. I'll
wait a minute." He was holding his hat on and looking up at the
steeple when he said that. It was a very old, wooden steeple, tall,
slender, and somewhat rheumatic, and he knew there must be more wind up
so high than there was nearer the ground. "It's swinging!" he said
suddenly. "I can see it bend! Glad they're all getting out. There