“Isn’t it—pretty—stony?” asked Madeline.
“Yes, but after she’d run so far she wouldn’t try to throw Betty.”
“Suppose we wait here. Oh, Bob, what shall we do if she’s badly hurt?”
“She can’t be,” said Bob with a thick sob. “Please come on, Madeline. I’ve got to know if she’s——” Bob paused over the dreadful word.
There was a little rustling noise in the bushes beside the road. “Did Mr. Ware have a dog?” asked Madeline.
“No,” gulped Bob.
“There’s something down there. Who’s there?” called Madeline fearlessly, and then she whistled in case Bob had been mistaken about the dog.
“It’s I—Betty Wales,” answered a shaky little voice, with a reassuring suggestion of mirth in it. “I’m so glad somebody has come. I’m down here in a berry-patch and I can’t get up.”
Madeline was off her horse by this time, pushing through the briars regardless of her new riding habit.
“Where are you hurt, dear?” she asked bending over Betty and speaking very gently. “Do you suppose you could let me lift you up?”