Rosemary stared at her blankly.  “Land?  What are you talking about, Janie?”

“My airplane—­the one that you said was the fat Hodges boy on a motorcycle!  Is there any place near here that it can make a landing?”

“Darling child—­” Mrs. Langdon’s gentle voice was gentler than ever—­ “darling child, it’s this wretched heat.  There isn’t any airplane, dear—­it’s just the wind rising in the beeches.”

“The wind?” Janet laughed aloud—­they really were too absurd.  “Why, Mrs. Langdon, you can hear the engines, if you’ll only listen!  You can hear them, can’t you, Mr. Bain?”

The young engineer shook his head.  “No plane would risk flying with this storm coming, Miss Abbott.  There’s been thunder for the last hour or so, and it’s getting nearer, too.  It’s only the wind, I think.”

“Oh, you’re laughing at me—­of course, of course you hear it.  Why, it’s as clear as—­as clear as—­” Her voice trailed off into silence.  Quite suddenly, without any transition or warning, she knew.  She could feel her heart stand perfectly still for a minute, and then plunge forward in mad flight, racing, racing—­oh, it knew, too, that eager heart!  She took her hand from the arm of the chair, releasing Rosemary’s wrist very gently.

“Yes, of course, it’s the heat,” she said quietly.  She must be careful not to frighten them, these kind ones.  “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Langdon, I think that I’ll go down to the gate to watch the storm burst.  No, please, don’t any of you come—­I’ll promise to change everything if I get caught—­yes, everything!  I won’t be long; don’t wait for me.”

She walked sedately enough until she came to the turn in the path, but after that she ran, only pausing for a minute to listen breathlessly.  Oh, yes—­following, following, that gigantic music!  How he must be laughing at her now—­blind, deaf, incredulous little fool that she had been, to doubt that Jerry would find a way!  But where could he land?  Not in the garden—­not at the gates—­oh, now she had it—­the far meadow.  She turned sharply; it was dark, but the path must be here.  Yes, this was the wicket gate; her groping fingers were quite steady—­they found the latch—­released it—­the gate swung to behind her flying footsteps.  “Oh, Jerry, Jerry!” sang her heart.  Why hadn’t she worn the rose-coloured frock?  It was she who would be a ghost in that trailing white thing.  To the right here—­yes, there was the hawthorn hedge—­only a few steps more—­oh, now!  She stood as still as a small statue, not moving, not breathing, her hands at her heart, her face turned to the black and torn sky.  Nearer, nearer, circling and darting and swooping—­the gigantic humming grew louder—­louder still—­it swept about her thunderously, so close that she clapped her hands over her ears, but she stood her ground, exultant and undaunted.  Oh, louder still—­and then suddenly the storm broke.  All the winds and the rains of the world were unleashed, and fell