day long knee-deep in water and soaked to the skin with rain
or snow."

The thunder-clap shook the house. The windows rattled, and the lamp that
had been newly lighted and put on the table flickered slightly and
burned red.

"Mercy, me, what a night! Was that a flash of lightning?" said Mrs.
Ritson, and she walked to the door once more and opened it.

"Don't worrit, mother," repeated Paul. "Do come in. Father will be here
soon, and if he gets a wetting there's no help for it now."

Paul had turned aside from an animated conversation with Greta to
interpolate this remonstrance against his mother's anxiety. Resuming the
narrative of his wrestling match, he described its incidents as much by
gesture as by words.

"John Proudfoot took me--so--and tried to give me the cross-buttock, but
I caught his eye and twisted him on my hip--so--and down he went in a
bash!"

A hurried knock came to the outer door. In an instant it was opened, and
a white face looked in.

"What's now, Reuben?" said Paul, rising to his feet.

"Come along with me--leave the women-folk behind--master's down--the
lightning has struck him--I'm afeart he's dead!"

"My father!" said Paul, and stood for a moment with a bewildered look.
"Go on, Reuben, I'll follow." Paul picked up his hat and was gone in an
instant.

Mrs. Ritson had been stooping over the griddle when Reuben entered. She
heard what he said, and rose up with a face of death-like pallor. But
she said nothing, and sunk helplessly into a chair. Then Greta stepped
up to her and kissed her.

"Mother--dear mother!" she said, and Mrs. Ritson dropped her head on the
girl's breast.

Hugh had been sitting over some papers in his own room off the first
landing. He overheard the announcement, and came into the hall.

"Your father has been struck by the lightning," said Greta.

"They will fetch him home," said Hugh.

At the next moment there was the sound from without of burdened
footsteps. They were bearing the injured man. Through the back of the
house they carried him to his room.

"That is for my sake," said Mrs. Ritson, raising her tear-stained face
to listen.

Paul entered. His ruddy cheeks had grown ashy white. His eyes, that had
blinked with pleasure a minute ago, now stared wide with fear.

"Is he alive?"

"Yes."

"Thank God! oh, thank God forever and ever! Let me go in to him."

"He is unconscious--he breathes--but no more."

Mrs. Ritson, with Paul and Greta, went into t