"Mr. Donaldson," she scolded, "you walked across there with your shoes and stockings on."
"Why, that's so," he exclaimed, looking down at his water-logged shoes as though in as great surprise as she herself.
"What are you going to do about it?"
"I don't know," he answered helplessly.
"You ought to spread them out in the sun to dry."
"You can't spread out shoes, can you? Besides we have n't time. We must hurry right on. Right on, this minute," he added as the motherly concern in her face set his throat to aching again.
With the stride of a pioneer he led off, praying that they might not find in their path another brook. For a stretch of a mile, he pressed on without once looking around, taking a faster pace than he realized. The course was a fairly smooth one over an acre or so of pasture, through a strip of oak woods, and up a stiff slope. It was not until he reached the top of this that he paused. He looked around and saw her about halfway up the hill, climbing heavily, her eyes upon the ground. Even as he watched her, he saw her sway, catch herself, and push on again without even looking up. It was the act of a woman almost exhausted. He reached her side in a couple of strides. He tried to take her arm but she broke free of him and in a final spurt reached the top of the hill and threw herself upon the ground to catch her breath.
"I did n't realize how fast I was going," he apologized kneeling by her side. "That was unpardonable, but why did n't you call to me?"
She removed her hat. Then she leaned back upon her hands until she could speak evenly. A light breeze loosened a brown curl and played with it.
"Why did n't you call to me?"