She gave Sarah a little pinch, and woke her up.
“Oh, Sarah, it’s come! It’s raining like everything, and here we are, and we can’t get to Mr. Fisher’s—isn’t it splendid?”
“Ye-es,” said Sarah; “it’s very splendid, only isn’t it a little—wet? It’s dropping right on my cheek.”
“Oh, that’s nothing—why, here I can put my hand right down into a puddle of water. It’s just like being at sea.”
“I know it. Are people at sea always so—cold?”
“Why, I’m not cold. Only we might as well wear our water-proofs. The leaves are a little damp.”
So they put on their tweed cloaks, and Gypsy listened to the wind, and thought it was very poetic and romantic, and that she was perfectly happy. And just as she had lain down again there came a great gust of rain, and one of the rivulets that were sweeping down the mountain splashed in under the canvas, and ran right through the middle of the tent like a brook. Sarah jumped up with energy.
“O—oh, it’s gone right over my feet!”
“My shoes are sailing away, as true as you live!” cried Gypsy, and sprang just in time to save them.
The dinner-basket and a tin pail were fast following, when Tom appeared upon the scene, and called through the wall of shawls,—