the mirror on the dressing-table glared supernaturally. Louisa clutched her friend. All was dark again, the thunder clapping directly.
“There, wasn’t that lovely!” cried Louisa, speaking of the lightning. “Oo, wasn’t it magnificent!—glorious!”
The door clicked and opened: Olive entered in her long white nightgown. She hurried to the bed.
“I say, dear!” she exclaimed, “may I come into the fold? I prefer the shelter of your company, dear, during this little lot.”
“Don’t you like it?” cried Louisa. “I think it’s lovely—lovely!”
There came another slash of lightning. The night seemed to open and shut. It was a pallid vision of a ghost-world between the clanging shutters of darkness. Louisa and Olive clung to each other spasmodically.
“There!” exclaimed the former, breathless. “That was fine! Helena, did you see that?”
She clasped ecstatically the hand of her friend, who was lying down. Helena’s answer was extinguished by the burst of thunder.
“There’s no accounting for tastes,” said Olive, taking a place in the bed. “I can’t say I’m struck on lightning. What about you, Helena?”
“I’m not struck yet,” replied Helena, with a sarcastic attempt at a jest.
“Thank you, dear,” said Olive; “you do me the honour of catching hold.”
Helena laughed ironically.
“Catching what?” asked Louisa, mystified.
