“Oh!”

A sudden vivid flash of lightning drew the exclamation from her, and made even quiet old Prue toss her head; and immediately after the flash came a violent peal of thunder just above their heads, so violent that it seemed as though the heavens themselves were being rent and shaken and the house tumbling about them.  Then came a quick patter, patter, patter, swish, swish, and a storm of rain descended on them.

“If you’ll get out, miss, and go into the house, I’ll take the mare and the carriage round and put them under shelter, or the cushions and things’ll be soaking wet by the time the doctor comes out.”

There was a tone in the man’s voice that Kitty could not ignore, though she disliked him intensely for it—­the more so, perhaps, because she felt that he was in the right.  He addressed her as though she were a little wilful child, whose foolishness he had endured for some time, but was not going to endure any longer.

Kitty was so annoyed that for a moment she felt that nothing would induce her to dismount, and that if he chose to put the carriage under shelter he could take her there along with it; but the prospect of having to endure his society the whole time made her pause, and while she paused the hall door was opened, and a lady appeared, peering out into the darkness.  Standing outlined against the lighted hall Kitty could see her distinctly, while she, her eyes dazzled for the moment by the light, could see nothing.

“Did Dr. Trenire bring one of his little girls with him, Reuben?”

“Yes’m.”

“Do come in at once, child.  Which is it?  Kitty?”

“Yes,” answered Kitty reluctantly.

“Then do come in.  Whatever makes you stay out in the storm?” cried Lady Kitson.

Kitty obediently, but most unwillingly, scrambled down from her seat.  Even from the carriage, and through the darkness, she could see how charming and dainty Lady Kitson was looking.  She had on a soft, flowing gray silk gown, with white lace about her shoulders and arms, and her beautiful golden hair gleamed brightly in the lamplight.  Kitty, at sight of her, suddenly realized with overwhelming shame that in her zeal to drive her father and make her appeal, she had neither brushed her own hair nor washed her hands, nor changed her old garden hat or morning frock.  She was, she knew, as disreputable-looking and untidy a daughter as any father could feel ashamed of.

“How stupid of me—­how stupid of me,” she thought, full of vexation with herself, “when I knew I was coming here, too.”

There was nothing to be done, though, but to go in and live through this ordeal as best she might.  “Why do these things always happen to me?” she groaned miserably.  “If I had wanted very much to go in, and had had on all new beautiful clothes, I should have been left out here to spoil them.  I wish father would come; he must have been gone quite half an hour, I am sure, and Sir James can’t want him any longer.”