Varunas, driving the span, had brought her to the rehearsal, but she had insisted that she be allowed to walk home. It bade fair to be a beautiful afternoon and early evening, she needed the exercise and would prefer it. Now, however, as she came down the church steps, she was aware that the sky was rapidly being obscured by dark clouds and she could hear the rumble of thunder in the west. She looked about, hoping that her uncle might have noticed the approaching storm and sent Mr. Gifford and the carriage, after all. Apparently he had not, so she started to walk briskly along the sidewalk. She had walked but a little way when a splash of rain fell upon the crown of her new and expensive hat. She fancied that hat, also the new gown she was wearing. Again she paused and looked impatiently up the road for Varunas and the span. They were not visible. Then she heard her name called and, turning back, saw a masculine form with an umbrella running in her direction. When this person came nearer she recognized him as Bob Griffin. He was out of breath, but cheerful. “Just caught you in time, didn’t I?” he panted. “I looked around for you when that chatter-mill shut down--the rehearsal, I mean--but Sister Wheeler had me under her wing and I couldn’t get away in a hurry. When I did you had gone. I found this umbrella in the entry. I don’t know whose it is, but it is ours now. Hope the real owner doesn’t get _too_ wet.” He grinned broadly and lifted the commandeered umbrella over the new hat. “Now we must move,” he went on. “It is going to rain like blazes. This is what my grand-dad would call a ‘tempest.’” She took his arm and, partially sheltered by the umbrella, they hurried along the sidewalk. She imagined that eager eyes were watching them from each window they passed, but it was no time for finicky objections. The rain was pouring now and continued to increasingly pour. Her feet were growing damp, so were her skirts. Suddenly her escort stopped. “Wait!” he ordered. “Great Scott! this isn’t a shower, it’s a flood. We must get under cover somewhere and wait till it lets up. You mustn’t drown--not until after that concert, anyhow. They would hang me if you did. Here! this will do. I don’t know who lives here, but they won’t put us out, I guess. Come!” He led her in through a gate in a picket fence and they hurried up a weed-grown walk to a rickety front porch. Bob folded the umbrella and turned to the door. There was a glass-knobbed bell-pull at the side of the door and, before she could stop him, he had given it a tug. “What are you doing that for?” she asked. “This house is empty. No one has lived in it for ever so long.” He whistled. “You don’t mean it!” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell me? Well, we’ll go on to the next one then.”