Chapter 2

The rumblings of thunder grew louder, and Margaret looked apprehensive.
When Allen rose and stalked to the door she turned so pale that the soap
lady temporarily recovered her ascendency. Surely he was not going to
leave her there alone with a furious thunderstorm coming up! She would
die of fright. Didn’t he remember how storms always terrified her, or
had he forgotten that as he had everything else? Margaret recalled a
thunderstorm the summer before when they had been together. Something in
the memory made her choke and she was furious to find tears in her eyes.

“I don’t care,” she thought miserably. “No, I don’t. But I won’t be left
here alone if it is going to thunder.”

Allen had meant to leave the waiting room. He honestly believed that his
presence there was obnoxious to her, and he felt sure that he would make
a new kind of fool of himself if he remained.

But when he reached the door a louder clap of thunder made him pause. He
knew she was always terribly frightened during thunderstorms. It would
not do to leave her alone. The storm grew worse rapidly, the peals of
thunder were louder and more incessant, the lightning flashed brighter.
The dismal little room was in semigloom. Outside the rain streamed down.

Simultaneously, with a glare of blue fire and a fearful crash in mid-air
came a pitiful, gasping, little cry behind him. He wheeled around and
saw Margaret huddled up in her corner with her face against the wall. In
an instant he was beside her.

“Margaret, darling, don’t be frightened. The storm will soon be over.”

“Oh, I can’t help it,” sobbed Margaret.

She wriggled herself about until her face was against his coat instead
of the wall. Allen put his arm around her and drew her close. She sat
quietly, shuddering at every crash. He bent his head and laid his face
against the soft hair under the hat, which had slipped aside. Then,
growing bolder, he kissed the curve of her neck where the little
lovelocks of reddish gold hair lay. Margaret lifted her hand and pressed
it against his cheek.

“It’s all right again, isn’t it, Margaret?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” she whispered back.

When the station master came back the thunderstorm was over and the sun
was bursting through the ragged clouds up the track. Barefooted small
boys were peeping out of their retreats in order to be in at the death
when the mail train came. The station master pushed up the window and
sold Allen two tickets with the air of a man conferring a tremendous
favor. He had an objectionable way with him, but Allen and Margaret
thought he was the most delightful public official they had ever seen.
They were so happy that they felt they could love everybody in the
world, even a supercilious station master with a red head.

When the five-thirty train came in Allen carried a valise, overcoat,
shawl strap and satchel in one hand, and with the other led his
companion unblushingly on board. They had looked so radiant that the
train hands all supposed that they were bride and groom, although Allen
was dusty and Margaret’s hat was crooked.

“That shower has laid the dust considerable,” remarked the station
master complacently as the train moved off.

It had done more than that.

* * * * *

“We grow like what we think of; so let us think of the good, the true
and the beautiful.”

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed.

[The end of _The Five-Thirty Train_ by L. M. (Lucy Maud) Montgomery]