Never Trust a Stream by L.L. Weedon — Read

THE thunder had roared up in the hills where the old engine-houses stood ruined and bare against the sky, and the lightning twice over flickered out of the black clouds and seemed to play round the grey granite stones, before down came the rain like a thick mist and blotted everything out.

And all the time down in the lowland toward the sea it was a brilliant summer's day -- "perfect weather," Sydney Lee's father said, "for July."