Sam was amazed. The woman standing before him was Mary Underwood, who had
been his friend when he was a boy in school and toward whom his mind had
turned after the tragedy in the kitchen. The figure of the woman standing
singing before him became a part of his thoughts of his mother singing on
the stormy night in the house and his mind wandered on, seeing pictures as
he used to see them when a boy walking under the stars and listening to
the talk of John Telfer. He saw a broad-shouldered man shouting defiance
to the storm as he rode down a mountain path.
"And he laughed at the rain on his wet, wet cloak," went on the voice of
the singer.
Mary Underwood's singing there in the rain made her seem near and likeable
as she had seemed to him when he was a barefoot boy.
"John Telfer was wrong about her," he thought.
She turned and faced him. Tiny streams of water ran from her hair down
across her cheeks. A flash of lightning cut the darkness, illuminating the
spot where Sam, now a broad-shouldered man, stood with the mud upon his
clothes and the bewildered look upon his face. A sharp exclamation of
surprise broke from her lips:
"Hello, Sam! What are you doing here? You had better get in out of the
rain.
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