There was something wonderfully reassuring in that kind, cheerful voice, and in a few minutes the two little girls had dried their tears, and were beginning to feel almost cheerful themselves. But now a new difficulty arose; something that neither of them had ever thought of. In their absorption they had quite failed to notice that the hot sunshine had been suddenly obscured by a dark cloud, until suddenly the rumble of distant thunder fell upon their ears. Daisy was on her feet in a moment. “There’s going to be a thunder-storm!” she exclaimed. “We must go right after Molly and Maud. Maud hates thunder.” “Who are Molly and Maud?” inquired Mrs. Thorne, and, as if in answer to her question, there was a sound of little feet on the piazza, and through the open window came an anxious voice. “Dulcie, Daisy, where are you? There’s a horrid thunder-storm coming up.” “They are our two little sisters,” explained Dulcie. “We left them out on the road. We were afraid people wouldn’t take us if they saw how many there were. Would you mind very much if they came in, just till the shower is over? Maud is so afraid of thunder-storms.” “Certainly not,” said Mrs. Thorne, who was beginning to look very much amused. “Run and bring the little girls in, Barbara.” Away flew hospitable Barbara, closely followed by Dulcie and Daisy, and in another moment they were back again, accompanied by Molly and Maud, who both looked very red and uncomfortable. “It was all Maud’s fault,” Molly was whispering apologetically to Dulcie. “I wanted to wait, but the minute she heard the thunder she was frightened, and she cried so hard I had to let her come to find you.” “It was beginning to thunder,” Maud was at the same moment explaining to the sympathetic Barbara. “Dulcie and Daisy stayed away so long, and I was so thirsty. I thought I was going to like cake for breakfast, but I didn’t; it left such a funny taste afterwards.” “Dulcie and Daisy,” repeated Barbara; “why, I thought their names were Delia and Margaret.” Maud looked blank, and Dulcie, blushing furiously, but still with a desperate attempt to keep up their assumed characters, hastened to explain. “Dulcie and Daisy are our home names,” she said. “Daisy’s real name is Margaret.” “And your real name is Delia, I suppose,” said Mrs. Thorne, smiling; “Delia Smith, I think you said.” Dulcie was silent. She was a truthful child, and not even for the honor of the Winslow family could she bring herself to tell a deliberate lie. Mrs. Thorne seemed to understand, for she smiled again, and her voice was very kind.