Silhouette of a Sparrow Read Online Free Page A

servants. Who does he think I am? We’re staying right here, thank you!”
    Hannah and I looked at each other, alarmed.
    Just then a rumble of thunder sounded that shook the foundation of the hotel. A window shattered somewhere upstairs. The lights flickered and the room blinked into darkness. The last of the lantern light disappeared into the kitchen.
    All three of us bolted after the group.
     
    The basement was hushed and dim and musty smelling. People sat on the dusty floor, huddled around the glow of lanterns and candelabras. Children curled into their mothers’ laps and went back to sleep. I joined a circle of people around an old gas lamp. Somewhere a man with a deep and gentle voice sang a few verses of a hymn.
    If, on a quiet sea, toward Heaven we calmly sail,
With grateful hearts, O God, to Thee,
We’ll own the favoring gale,
With grateful hearts, O God, to Thee,
We’ll own the favoring gale.
     
    But should the surges rise, and rest delay to come,
Blest be the tempest, kind the storm,
Which drives us nearer home,
Blest be the tempest, kind the storm,
Which drives us nearer home.

     
    Teach us, in every state, to make Thy will our own;
And when the joys of sense depart,
To live by faith alone,
And when the joys of sense depart,
To live by faith alone.
    His voice eased the fear out of me and I dozed, leaning against a cobweb-covered wall. Mrs. Harrington and Hannah stood for a long time, not wishing to soil their clothes, but after an hour they gave up and sat. I was dimly aware of Hannah’s hip touching mine—we were crowded together down there and the proximity was oddly comforting. Mrs. Harrington’s quiet complaints drifted into my sleep and mixed with the words of the hymn that floated in my mind: Blest be the tempest, kind the storm, which drives us nearer home.
    It was nearly dawn when the stately cormorant woke us with the news that the storm had ended and we could return to our rooms. Sleepily, we picked our way through the graying darkness, avoiding the glass and hailstones that littered the carpet. He, the bellboy who had watched over us all night, found us extra blankets in case a chill came into our rooms through broken windows, in case our blankets were wet with rain.
    I don’t remember walking into my room, or undressing, or getting into bed. Sleep took me before I found my pillow.
     
    When I awoke, the sun was high in a bright blue sky. Disoriented, I took in first the tangle of my sheets, then
the closed windows. I rose, meaning to open them—why were they shut? It was only when my toes found wet carpet that I remembered the storm. The panic. The danger. The way joy and adventure had turned to terror in an instant. I shivered.
    I wrapped my dressing gown around me and tied the sash, then opened both windows wide and surveyed the damage.
    The hail had melted in the sun, but the grass was strewn with tree branches and debris. Outside the north window, the maple tree looked haggard. Its leaves were tattered, torn to bits by the hail, and wounds on its bark showed that it had lost many small branches during the night. The sky had been scrubbed clean and now arched brilliantly overhead. The plants, though messy, were a lush green from all the rain, and the lake gleamed like it had never seen the sun before. The heaviness in the air had lifted and the breeze off the lake was almost cool. The morning felt new.
    So did I.
    The Harringtons, on the other hand, looked terrible. After lunch (which was our breakfast), they retired to their rooms to rest. The hotel was in disarray, with wet carpets and broken windows and a messy yard and no electricity, so it seemed like as good a time as any to get out of there. “I’m taking a walk,” I said as the Harringtons headed off to their rooms. “I’ll be back in time to wake you for supper.”
    Mrs. Harrington simply nodded and closed her door, too tired to spout opinions about the best walking paths or to caution me about places to