"Ah, there is Sam, crying." They both went into the sitting-room; little Sam had petitioned to go to bed on the sofa till the storm was over, and now, awakened by the thunder, was sitting up in his bed, crying out for his mother.
The Major went in and lay down by the child on the sofa, to quiet him.
"What!" said he, "Sammy, you're not afraid of thunder, are you ?" "Yes! I am," said the child; "very much indeed.

I am glad you are come, father." "Lightning never strikes good boys, Sam," said the Major.
"Are you sure of that, father ?" said the little one.
That was a poser; so the Major thought it best to counterfeit sleep; but he overdid it, and snored so loud, that the boy began to laugh, and his father had to practise his deception with less noise.

And by degrees, the little hand that held his moustache dropped feebly on the bedclothes, and the Major, ascertaining by the child's regular breathing that his son was asleep, gently raised his vast length, and proposed to his wife to come into the verandah again.
"The storm is breaking, my love," said he; "and the air is deliciously cool out there.

Put your shawl on and come out." They went out again; the lightning was still vivid, but the thunder less loud.

Straight down the garden from them stretched a broad gravel walk, which now, cut up by the rain into a hundred water channels, showed at each flash like rivers of glittering silver.