“Give me your right hand,” Valentine ordered gruffly.
“What are you doing down here?” queried the girl, as she was lifted slowly to her feet, a proceeding not unconnected with a good deal of discomfort.
“I came to blow away some cobwebs out of my brains.”
“How funny!” Polly said, faintly; “so did I! Aren’t—aren’t cobwebs nasty, clinging things?”
She hardly knew if she were speaking coherently, for Valentine was moving her slowly back over the rocks again, and her injured arm throbbed and quivered with a feverish pain that was well-nigh unbearable, while she had a funny lightness in her head.
Whether he answered or no, she could not tell.
She was not fully conscious of all that followed, save that she realized she was being taken nearer and nearer to the parade.
As they were passing the rock which she called her “home,” she asked to stop.
“I have left my hat and ulster here,” she explained. “I want to get them. Mrs. Blaine will think I have gone mad if I go back like this.”
“Polly, do you know you are wet through?” demanded Valentine, as they both sat down and recovered breath a little.