“No, I’m not,” answered Cecily, with a change of tone.

“Oh, well, I don’t care,” said Felicity quickly.  “Only, if to-morrow is the last day, the cherry vase won’t be much use to you.”

“I guess it will be as much use to me as to any one else,” said Cecily indignantly.  She had sacrificed her dear forget-me-not jug to satisfy some pang of conscience, or propitiate some threatening fate, but surrender her precious cherry vase she could not and would not.  Felicity needn’t be giving any hints!

With the gathering shades of night our plight became pitiful.  In the daylight, surrounded by homely, familiar sights and sounds, it was not so difficult to fortify our souls with a cheering incredulity.  But now, in this time of shadows, dread belief clutched us and wrung us with terror.  If there had been one wise older friend to tell us, in serious fashion, that we need not be afraid, that the Enterprise paragraph was naught save the idle report of a deluded fanatic, it would have been well for us.  But there was not.  Our grown-ups, instead, considered our terror an exquisite jest.  At that very moment, Aunt Olivia, who had recovered from her headache, and Aunt Janet were laughing in the kitchen over the state the children were in because they were afraid the end of the world was close at hand.  Aunt Janet’s throaty gurgle and Aunt Olivia’s trilling mirth floated out through the open window.

“Perhaps they’ll laugh on the other side of their faces to-morrow,” said Dan, with gloomy satisfaction.

We were sitting on the cellar hatch, watching what might be our last sunset o’er the dark hills of time.  Peter was with us.  It was his last Sunday to go home, but he had elected to remain.

“If to-morrow is the Judgment Day I want to be with you fellows,” he said.

Sara Ray had also yearned to stay, but could not because her mother had told her she must be home before dark.

“Never mind, Sara,” comforted Cecily.  “It’s not to be till two o’clock to-morrow, so you’ll have plenty of time to get up here before anything happens.”

“But there might be a mistake,” sobbed Sara.  “It might be two o’clock to-night instead of to-morrow.”

It might, indeed.  This was a new horror, which had not occurred to us.

“I’m sure I won’t sleep a wink to-night,” said Felix.

“The paper SAYS two o’clock to-morrow,” said Dan.  “You needn’t worry, Sara.”

But Sara departed, weeping.  She did not, however, forget to carry the forget-me-not jug with her.  All things considered, her departure was a relief.  Such a constantly tearful damsel was not a pleasant companion.  Cecily and Felicity and the Story Girl did not cry.  They were made of finer, firmer stuff.  Dry-eyed, with such courage as they might, they faced whatever might be in store for them.

“I wonder where we’ll all be this time to-morrow night,” said Felix mournfully, as we watched the sunset between the dark fir boughs.  It was an ominous sunset.  The sun dropped down amid dark, livid clouds, that turned sullen shades of purple and fiery red behind him.