Then, suddenly as it had come, the storm passed, trailing dark, yellow-gray, ragged clouds in its wake. The light came back and the awed girls at the little window saw below them in the emerald meadows, wide ugly yellow splotches that grew as they looked, meeting other growing patches of swirling yellow water from the lanes and roads. Trees showed fresh wounds and masses of broken branches clotted the discolored waters of the brook. Birds called excitedly and flew exultantly about in the limpid air. The sun flung gay greens and golds. The storm was past.
"Look, look!" cried Judith, her eyes alight and her whole slender little figure relaxed. "Two trees are down!"
Across the road a huge sycamore blocked the way and on the pike a giant willow had crashed down.
"Oh, Bruce, the sycamore you painted is gone!" called Patricia, not turning. "Come and see!"
Elinor came, with the painter following, and as soon as they saw the work of the storm, Bruce awoke to immediate action.
"You girls tell Henry to come down with the axe and grubbing-hoe," he commanded briskly. "I'm off." And flinging his coat to Elinor, he seized a hatchet that was lying in the stairway and started for the wreckage, while Patricia and Judith flew to fulfill his orders.
The sun shone and the birds sang while the work went on, and far down the pike they could see other prone trees with busy choppers clearing limbs and entangling foliage from the highway. A band of men begirt with axes, cords and other implements passed on their way to the school house where a big maple blocked the pike.
Patricia was tremendously interested and it was with the greatest regret that she heard the whistle of the up-train, while the tangle of the sycamore was still undisturbed in the roadway.
"Oh, do let's stay till it's all done," she urged, but Bruce and Elinor were adamant.
"What does it matter if we do miss the train?" she insisted. "We can take the early one in the morning. We'll be home almost as soon."
"I've got to pack tonight, young lady," Bruce reminded her. "I'm not so fortunate as to be coming to Greycroft, you'll remember. It takes longer to get to Chicago than to Rockham."
"Oh, that's so," acquiesced Patricia. "I suppose you do have to be there for that private view of the panels."