himself. Poor Uncle Charlie!

It was hard for Missy to get to sleep that night. Her brain was a
dark, seething whirlpool. And the air seemed to grow thicker and
thicker; it rested heavily on her hot eyelids, pressed suffocatingly
against her throat. And when, finally, she escaped her thoughts in
sleep, it was only to encounter them again in troubled dreams.

She was awakened abruptly by a terrific noise. Oh, Lord! what was
it? She sat up. It sounded as if the house were falling down. Then
the room, the whole world, turned suddenly a glaring, ghostly white-
-then a sharp, spiteful, head-splitting crack of sound--then
heavier, staccato volleys--then a baneful rumble, dying away.

A thunder-storm! Oh, Lord! Missy buried her face in her pillow.
Nothing in the world so terrified her as thunder-storms.

She seemed to have lain there ages, scarcely breathing, when, in a
little lull, above the fierce swish of rain she thought she heard
voices. Cautiously she lifted her head; listened. She had left her
door open for air and, now, she was sure she heard Uncle Charlie's
deep voice. She couldn't hear what he was saying. Then she heard
Aunt Isabel's voice, no louder than uncle Charlie's but more
penetrating; it had a queer note in it--almost as if she were
crying. Suddenly she did cry out!--And then Uncle Charlie's deep
grumble again.

Missy's heart nearly stopped beating. Could it be that Uncle Charlie
had found out?--That he was accusing Aunt Isabel and making her cry?
But surely they wouldn't quarrel in a thunder-storm! Lightning might