drenching all things. And then, the sharp, curt rattle of hail.

"Come to the middle of the room, the lightning is straight above us!"

We crouched together as the thunder crashed over the house.
Rain,--nothing but rain. No ever-varying light and shade, as in common
squalls. One great cascade poured down its awful monotony.

A bursting noise at the door. There stood before us Mrs. Romulus, Miss
Hurribattle, and Mr. Stellato. Soaked, dripping, reeking,--take your
choice of adjectives, or look into Worcester for better. The ladies
might have passed for transcendental relatives of Fouqué's Undine.
Stellato, with his hair and face bedaubed with a glutinous substance
into which his helmet had been resolved, did not strongly resemble one's
idea of a Progressive Gladiator. Truly, a deplorable contrast between
that late triumphant march before the house, and this present estate of
the leaders, so reduced, so pitiable!

"Oh, dear, dear, what can I do for you?" cried good Mrs. Widesworth,
forgetting all resentment in a gracious gush of sympathy.

"'Only wine-bibbers and flesh-eaters are affected by the weather,'"
murmured the clergyman, in bitter quotation, "'Storm and sunshine are
alike wholesome to the purified seekers for truth.'"

"Seekers for truth!" echoed Professor Owlsdarck; "one would say that our
friends must have been seeking it in its native well."

"As a medical man," said Dr. Dastick, "I shall direct Mrs. Widesworth to
provide some dry garments for her unexpected guests. Also, I think it my