there when they came back, sitting where Rosemary was seated now. Why,
there, on those same steps, a bare six months ago--Something snapped
in her head, and she stumbled to her feet, clinging to the arm of her
chair.

"I can't _stand_ it!" she gasped. "No, no, it's no use--I can't, I
tell you. I--"

Rosemary's arm was about her--Mrs. Langdon's soft voice in her
ears--a deeper note from Rosemary's engineer.

"Oh, I say, poor girl! What is it, dear child--what's the matter? Is
it the heat, Janie?"

"The heat!" She could hear herself laughing--frantic, hateful,
jangling laughter that wouldn't stop. "Oh, Jerry! Oh-h, Jerry, Jerry,
Jerry!"

"It's this ghastly day. Let me get her some water, Mrs. Langdon.
Don't cry so, Janie--please, please don't, darling."

"I c-can't help it--I c-can't----" She paused, listening intently,
her hand closing sharply over Rosemary's wrist. "Oh, listen,
listen--there it comes again--I told you so!"

"Thank Heaven," murmured Mrs. Langdon devoutly, "I thought that it
never was going to rise this evening. It's from the south, too, so I
suppose that it means rain."

"Rain?" repeated Janet vaguely. "Why in the world should it mean rain?"