"Did you ever see such a
thunderstorm, Mrs. Cummings?"
"It is pretty bad," a voice answered. It wasn't Mrs. Cummings, as she had
hurried to oversee the maid close the windows through the house, but
another of the boarders, who, like Alexia, had selected this apartment for
a refuge.
"Oh, dear me!" Alexia sank down upon the sofa, being careful not to
relinquish her hold of Polly, and dragged a cushion over her face. "Is that
you, Mr. Filbert"--bringing out one eye to stare at him.
"I think so," said Mr. Filbert, a little thin old man sitting over in the
corner and leaning forward over his cane. He spoke cautiously, as if not
quite sure. "Yes, it _is_ a bad storm," he repeated decidedly. "Where
is your aunt?"
"She's up in the closet," said Alexia, pulling the sofa-cushion over her
own and Polly's face as well. "There, we can't see it at any rate, if we
are going to be killed."
"Up in the closet?" repeated Mr. Filbert.
"Yes. Oh, Polly, do you suppose it's lightening and thundering now?"--as
the two girls cuddled up closer together on the roomy old sofa, the cushion
crowded up over eyes and ears.
"I suppose so," said Polly, very much wishing she could say "No."
"Oh, dear me! I'm smothered to death," grumbled Alexia, "and I'm so
hot"--wriggling discontentedly.
"So am I," said Polly.
"What did you say? Your aunt was in the closet?" little old Mr.
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