conscious of a need of company. On nights like this they felt the loneliness.
They set two plates on the red table-cloth, and made the tea. They had brought in the daily paper from the mail box. After supper they would wash the dishes, and Aunt Olivia would read aloud to Aunt Catherine. And that would be their evening.
The storm increased. The rain was noisier than ever, so noisy that when Aunt Olivia said, "Did you hear a car stop, Catherine?" her sister said, "It was the wind."
But it was not the wind. Presently there was the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the porch. Then a voice that made their hearts jump. Hildegarde's! "Such a night . . . if you'll hold my umbrella."
She came in, the man who had driven her from the station just behind her. "Such a night," she said again, "oh, you darlings. . . ."
The wind literally blew her into their arms. The man who had brought her bag closed the door with difficulty. "If this keeps up," he stated, "it 'ull be doing some damage."
But what cared those two old women if the wind blew or if the storm raged? Youth had entered their lonely house and had lighted it. Hildegarde's cheeks were red with the bluster of the night, her eyes were bright with happiness. "Oh, you darlings, darlings, darlings!" she said over and over again, and the reiteration was like a song.
She paid the man and he went out. Hildegarde wore a raincoat of thin red oilskin. She had a red umbrella and a red hat. Her vividness was amazing. "You're
