Thunder shook the house like an explosion.  The women looked at each other with awed faces.

“Where is your mother?  Why don’t she come in here?” Mrs. Babcock asked excitedly of Lois returning from the bedroom.

“She’s gone berrying,” replied Lois, feebly.  She sank into a chair.

“Gone berryin’!” screamed Mrs. Babcock, and the other women echoed her.

“Yes’m.”

“When did she go?”

“Right after dinner.”

“Right after dinner, an’ she ain’t got home yet!  Out in this awful tempest!  Well, she’ll be killed.  You’ll never see her again, that’s all.  A berry pasture is the most dangerous place in creation in a thunder-shower.  Out berryin’ in all this hail an’ thunder an’ lightnin’!”

Mrs. Green pressed close up to Lois.  “Ain’t you any idea where she’s gone?” said she.  “If you have, I’ll jest slip off my dress skirt, an’ you give me an old shawl, an’ I’ll go with you an’ see if we can’t find her.”

“I’ll go, too,” cried Amanda.  “Don’t you know which way they went, Lois?”

Just then the south side-door slammed sharply.

“She’s come,” said Lois, in a strained voice.

“Well, I’m thankful!” cried Mrs. Green.  “Hadn’t you better run out an’ help her off with her wet things, Lois?”

But the sitting-room door opened, and Mrs. Field stood there, a tall black shadow hardly shaped out from the gloom.  The women all arose and hurried toward her.  There was a shrill flurry of greeting.  Mrs. Field’s voice arose high and terrified above it.

“Who is it?” she cried out.  “Who’s here?”

“Why, your old neighbors, Mrs. Field.  Don’t you know us—­Mandy an’ Mis’ Green an’ Mis’ Babcock?  We come down on an excursion ticket to Boston—­only three dollars an’ sixty cents—­an’ we thought we’d surprise you.”

“Ain’t you dreadful wet, Mis’ Field?” interposed Mrs. Green’s solicitous voice.

“You’d better go and change your dress,” said Amanda.

“When did you come?” said Mrs. Field.

“Jest now.  For the land sakes, Mis’ Field, your dress is soppin’ wet!  Do go an’ change it, or you’ll catch your death of cold.”

Mrs. Field did not stir.  The hail pelted on the windows.  “Now, you go right along an’ change it,” cried Mrs. Babcock.

“Well,” said Mrs. Field vaguely, “mebbe I’d better.”  She fumbled her way unsteadily toward her bedroom door.

“You go help her; it’s dark as a pocket,” said Mrs. Babcock imperatively to Lois; and the girl followed her mother.

“They act dreadful queer, seems to me,” whispered Mrs. Babcock, when the bedroom door was closed.

“I guess it’s jest because they’re so surprised to see us,” Mrs. Green whispered back.

“Well, if I ain’t wanted, I can go back to where I come from, if I do have to throw the money away,” Mrs. Babcock said, almost aloud.  “I think they act queer, both on ’em.  I should think they might seem a little mite more pleased to see three old neighbors so.”