By and by the little fellows’ heads drooped heavily on Florence’s knee; but, absorbed in the book, she noticed nothing unusual, till Walter said in her ear:
“Donna, there’s a storm coming up; I can feel it on the air.”
“So can I,” added Fred plaintively. “My poor head is aching so badly I don’t know what to do.”
Florence looked anxiously around. She knew that Walter, with boyish enthusiasm, liked to watch the warring elements, but she had heard Fred pathetically describe his sufferings during the tempests he had witnessed in India. The child’s nervous temperament, always delicate, was severely affected by the change in the weather; and when she tried to arouse him that they might seek a shelter ere the storm overtook them, he sank on the ground, moaning with the acute pain in his temples.
There was not a cottage near, and for a few minutes she knelt beside her helpless charge in great perplexity.
“Let me run to the Court and ask Mrs. Wilson to send the pony chaise for you and Fred,” suggested his braver brother.
Florence glanced at the threatening sky above them.
“My dear boy, it is such a distance to let you go alone.”
“Nonsense, Donna! I don’t mind it a bit. It’s no use to stay here, for it will be hours before Fred is better.”
This seemed too feasible to be denied.