“I’ve no doubt it can be explained simply,” said Betty.  “The woman who lives here may have gone to a neighbor’s house and failed to notice the time.  Then she may be storm-bound, as we are.”

“No woman would remain at a neighbor’s house, and leave her own alone, with a lot of windows up, the front door open and a beating rain coming down,” said Grace, positively.  “Not such a neat housekeeper as the woman here seems to be; she’d come home if she was drenched,” and she glanced around the well-ordered rooms.

“You’ve got to think up a different reason than that, Betty Nelson.”

“Besides, what of the men folks?—­there are men living here—­at least one, for there’s a hat on the front rack,” put in Amy.  “Where are the men, or the man?”

“They’ll be along at supper time,” declared Betty.

“Besides, maybe that hat is just kept there to scare tramps,” said Grace.  “I’ve often heard of a lone woman borrowing a man’s hat—­when she didn’t have—­didn’t want, or couldn’t get a man.”

“That’s so,” admitted Betty.  “But, speaking of supper reminds me—­what are we going to do about ours?”

“It is getting nearly time,” murmured Mollie.  “But we simply can’t tramp through that rain to your sister’s house, Grace.”

“No, we’ll have to wait.  Oh, dear!  Isn’t this a queer predicament to be in, and not a chocolate left?” she wailed, as she looked in the box.  “Empty!” she cried quite tragically.

The rain still descended.  It was not, for the moment, pouring as hard as at first, but there was a steadiness and persistency to it that did not encourage one in the belief that it would soon stop.  The big drops dashed against the windows intermittently, as the wind rose and fell.

Around one angle of the house the gale howled quite fiercely, and in the parlor, where there was an open fireplace, it came down in gusts, sighing mournfully out into the room, with its old horsehair furniture, the pictures of evidently dead-and-gone relatives, in heavy gold frames, while in other frames were fearfully and wonderfully made wreaths of flowers—­wax in some cases, and cloth in the remainder, being the medium in which nature was rather mocked than simulated.

The girls stood at the windows, staring drearily out.  They could just see a house down the road on the other side.  In the other direction no residences were visible—­just an expanse of rain-swept fields.  And there seemed to be no passers-by—­no teams on the winding country road.

“Oh, but this is lonesome,” said Amy, with a sigh.

“Girls, what are we to do?” demanded Mollie.

“We simply must go on to my sister’s,” declared Grace.  “What will she think, if we don’t come?”

As if in answer, the storm burst into another spasm of fury, the rain coming down in “sheets, blankets and pillow cases,” as Mollie grimly put it.

“We can never go—­in this downpour,” declared Betty.  “It would be sheer madness—­foolishness, at any rate.  We would be drenched in an instant, and perhaps take cold.”