ack, I could see the woman I knew following,
leaning on the arm of the boy with the rolling eyes, whose eyes had
ceased to roll, and who was quite recognisable now as Toot.

A happiness that was almost as terrible as sorrow welled up in my heart.
I did not weep, or laugh, or talk. All I had experienced had carried me
beyond mere excitement into exultation. I exulted in life, in love. My
conceit and sulkiness died in that storm, as did many another thing. I
was alive. I was loved. I said it over and over to myself silently, in
"my heart's deep core," while mother washed me with trembling hands in
my own dear room, bound up my hurts, braided my hair, and put me, in a
fresh night-dress, into my bed. I do not recall that we talked to
each other, but in every caress of her hands as she worked I felt the
unspoken assurances of a love such as I had not dreamed of.

Father had gone running back to the school to see if he could be of any
assistance to his neighbours, and had taken Toot with him, but they were
back presently to say that beyond a few sharp injuries and broken bones,
no harm had been done to the children. It was considered miraculous that
no one had been killed or seriously injured, and I noticed that father's
voice trembled as he told of it, and that mother could not answer, and
that Toot sobbed like a big silly boy.

Then as we talked together, behold, a second storm was upon us--a sharp
black blast of wind and rain, not terrifying, like the other, but with
an "I've-come-to-spend-the-day" sort of aspect.

But no one seemed to mind very much. I was carried down to the
sitting-room. Toot busied himself coming and going on this errand and
on that, fastening the doors, closing the windows, running out to see
to the animals, and coming back again. Father and mother set the table.
They kept close together; and now and then they looked over at me,
without saying anything, but with shining eyes.

The storm died down to a quiet rain. From the roof of the porch the
drops fell in silver strings, like beads. Then the sun came out and
turned them into shining crystal. The birds began to sing again, and
when we threw open the windows delicious odours of fresh earth and
flowering shrub greeted us. Mother began to sing as she worked. And I
sank softly to sleep, thrilled with the marvels of the world--not of the
tempest, but of the peace.

The sweet familiarity of the faces and the walls and the furniture and
the garden was