“I will simply close the shutters, then, and call my boy to bring me a wooden bar. Pray, touch the bell-pull there. “Are you frantic? That bell-wire might blast you. Never touch bell-wire in a thunder-storm, nor ring a bell of any sort.” “Nor those in belfries? Pray, will you tell me where and how one may be safe in a time like this? Is there any part of my house I may touch with hopes of my life?” “There is; but not where you now stand. Come away from the wall. The current will sometimes run down a wall, and—a man being a better conductor than a wall—it would leave the wall and run into him. Swoop! _That_ must have fallen very nigh. That must have been globular lightning.” “Very probably. Tell me at once, which is, in your opinion, the safest part of this house? “This room, and this one spot in it where I stand. Come hither.” “The reasons first.” “Hark!—after the flash the gust—the sashes shiver—the house, the house!—Come hither to me!” “The reasons, if you please.” “Come hither to me!” “Thank you again, I think I will try my old stand—the hearth. And now, Mr. Lightning-rod-man, in the pauses of the thunder, be so good as to tell me your reasons for esteeming this one room of the house the safest, and your own one stand-point there the safest spot in it.” There was now a little cessation of the storm for a while. The Lightning-rod man seemed relieved, and replied:— “Your house is a one-storied house, with an attic and a cellar; this room is between. Hence its comparative safety. Because lightning sometimes passes from the clouds to the earth, and sometimes from the earth to the clouds. Do you comprehend?—and I choose the middle of the room, because if the lightning should strike the house at all, it would come down the chimney or walls; so, obviously, the further you are from them, the better. Come hither to me, now.” “Presently. Something you just said, instead of alarming me, has strangely inspired confidence.” “What have I said?” “You said that sometimes lightning flashes from the earth to the clouds.” “Aye, the returning-stroke, as it is called; when the earth, being overcharged with the fluid, flashes its surplus upward.” “The returning-stroke; that is, from earth to sky. Better and better. But come here on the hearth and dry yourself.” “I am better here, and better wet.” “How?” “It is the safest thing you can do—Hark, again!—to get yourself thoroughly drenched in a thunder-storm. Wet clothes are better conductors than the body; and so, if the lightning strike, it might pass down the wet clothes without touching the body. The storm deepens again. Have you a rug in the house? Rugs are non-conductors. Get one, that I may stand on it here, and you, too. The skies blacken—it is dusk at noon. Hark!—the rug, the rug!” I gave him one; while the hooded mountains seemed closing and tumbling into the cottage.