"You've got to think up a different reason than that, Betty Nelson."
"Besides, what of the men folks?--there are men living here--at least
one, for there's a hat on the front rack," put in Amy. "Where are the
men, or the man?"
"They'll be along at supper time," declared Betty.
"Besides, maybe that hat is just kept there to scare tramps," said Grace.
"I've often heard of a lone woman borrowing a man's hat--when she didn't
have--didn't want, or couldn't get a man."
"That's so," admitted Betty. "But, speaking of supper reminds me--what
are we going to do about ours?"
"It is getting nearly time," murmured Mollie. "But we simply can't tramp
through that rain to your sister's house, Grace."
"No, we'll have to wait. Oh, dear! Isn't this a queer predicament to be
in, and not a chocolate left?" she wailed, as she looked in the box.
"Empty!" she cried quite tragically.
The rain still descended. It was not, for the moment, pouring as hard as
at first, but there was a steadiness and persistency to it that did not
encourage one in the belief that it would soon stop. The big drops dashed
against the windows intermittently, as the wind rose and fell.
Around one angle of the house the gale howled quite fiercely, and in the
parlor, where there was an open fireplace, it came down in gusts, sighing
mournfully out into the room, with its old horsehair furniture, the
pictures of evidently dead-and-gone relatives, in heavy gold frames,
while in other frames were fearfully and wonderfully made wreaths of
flowers--wax in some cases, and cloth in the remainder, being the medium
in which nature was rather mocked than simulated.
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