"No, I'm going to sit on the book you were reading this morning, if you have it with you."
"I haven't, Bessie, my dear. It lies under the sweet-apple tree, along with your darning and the picture of the wonderful house which flaps its wings like a jub-jub bird. It is no longer dry. You'll have to stand on one foot while you eat your sandwiches. That way, you can keep the other from getting wet."
"They'll be soaked through and through," moaned Bess.
"What? Your feet or the sandwiches?"
"No, no! Everything—everybody at the picnic."
"They certainly will," said Uncle Rob.
"Want to turn around?" asked Bob.
"Indeed no," said Uncle Rob, "not unless the rest of you have a chill in your ardor. A wet picnic is likely to be interesting. Maybe it was at such a one that the lady got the conception of her picture of the house." I giggled and Bess looked mystified.
The storm was still holding on pretty steadily, and the thunder seemed to stay right overhead, and it took all of Bob's attention for the horses,
