"Oh, my! ain't it heavenly to cut capers like that in the air; it is like the merry-go-rounds at the fair," and then Kit clapped her hands as another pretty creature rose softly and fluttered away in the distance.
The air had been growing more sultry and oppressive every moment; a heavy storm was evidently gathering--already a few heat-drops had fallen.

Malcolm was a man who noticed details; he perceived at once that the ragged cover of the perambulator offered a flimsy and insufficient protection.

Then he glanced at the umbrella in his hand; it was a dandified article, with a handsomely carved handle.
The two voices that usually wrangled within his breast for the mastery made themselves heard.
"It is perfectly impossible for you to offer the umbrella that Anna gave you to that brat," murmured common-sense; "very likely her father would pawn it for gin." "But the child looks ill," remonstrated impulse.

"Anna would be sure to think of the poor mite first." But it was doubtful which voice would have prevailed but for a chance word.
"Oh, dad, there is a big drop--it quite splashed my face.

Ma'am said the rain would drown us." Then the man, whose wits had been wool-gathering, looked up in alarm, and began fumbling with Kit's shawl.
"Dear sakes," he muttered, "who would have thought it! But it is just my luck.