"Mother's never afraid," declared Bobby confidently, putting the
arrow head back in his pocket to show his father. "Oh, that
lightning went right into the lake!"

"Better get in now," Mr. Harley told them, holding up the oilcloth
so that they could creep in under the door-roof. "All in? Then
here I come."

The rain was coming down in great, dashing torrents in another
moment and the four little Blossoms were thankful for their dry
corner.

"It's a good thing we didn't start out," shouted Mr. Harley above
the noise of the rain. "We never could have made the bungalow
before the rain caught us. This will knock the apples off. That's
a pity because they're fine when they're left to ripen."

"Meg said they weren't ripe yet," said Bobby.

"I hope you didn't try to eat any," answered Mr. Harley earnestly.
"Green apples are not good for you."

"Oh, we didn't touch one," Bobby assured him, trying to punch
Twaddles, who was tickling him. "Meg said they belonged to you."

"I want you children to eat 'em, but not till they are ripe," Mr.
Harley shouted back. "Along about the first week in July, you come
up here and you'll find the best sweet apples you ever tasted.
That is, if the storms leave any on the tree, and I guess they