lilac-bushes were fanned into fantastic shapes. The sumach perked its
red _pompon_ like a holiday soldier, and then flung skyward its crimson
battle-flag. The wind blustered among the fallen leaves, and slammed a
loose blind or two. It grew darker,--still darker.

The procession, at last,--a straggling remnant of it,--was seen pushing
up the hill. A remnant indeed! The children, and those having charge of
them, had withdrawn. The Committee-men had sought shelter. The
Progressive Guard was decimated. Every moment men and women were falling
out of rank and hurrying away.

It was a little group that at length collected about the cider-mill.
Little at first,--less every instant. It would be necessary to abridge
the exercises. We saw Mrs. Romulus mount a barrel and harangue the
seceders with furious gesticulation. A book was passed up to her, and
she apparently gave out some hymn or ode suitable to the occasion. Alas!
there remained no choir to give it vocal expression.

A hurricane-gust struck the town, and drove clouds of dust along the
street. Perhaps it was five minutes before the hill was again visible.
Then there stood by the Deacon's cider-mill three figures. Mr. Stellato
waved a torch about his head, and flung it into the combustibles. A
sheet of flame shot madly up. Mrs. Romulus seized one of the abandoned
banners and flourished it in triumph.

Again the Twynintuft oak ground its great branches together, and threw
them heavenward for relief. The relief came. The dry agony of Nature
burst in a flood of tears.

The rain came beating down. It came with a sudden plunge upon the earth,