But the blaze kindled by a fire-witch, who wore brown honors for building a fire in wind and rain, put a fair face on everything—that and the toasted bacon, the steaming flapjacks, to say nothing of the evening star of anticipation radiantly in the ascendant.
“Well! this will be our last night of sleeping out,” said the Guardian, “our fourth and last, so even if it isn’t very comfortable, we’ll make the best of it. To-morrow, if we cover our ten miles—we made nine to-day—’twill bring us to Mount Pocohosette, the horse-farm at the foot—our snug camp on the side-hill!”
“And Revel and Revelation!... Revel and Revelation—in more than horseflesh, too!”? laughed blissful voices. “Oh! to-night we’ll just dream of the Long Pasture; the horses to be caught with chaff—no, oats—saddled, bridled.”
“The radio concerts of an evening! A morning ‘hamfest’—gossip with father—space obliterated,” supplemented Pemrose. “Let’s turn in early—and bring it nearer—all nearer! Hush! Here comes the dream man.”
They were not afraid of less flexible footsteps than his, to-night, as they piled the fire up and lay down beside it.
Two quiet nights in the open had lent a green seasoning even to tenderfoot nerves.
But some stronger “pep” was needed in Hidden Valley—as this side of midnight proved.
Eleven o’clock—and not the soothing Dream Man, but the black Rain Hand, was upon them—groping for their faces with chilling fingers!
“Goodness! It’s going to be a deluge—a bitter downpour.” The Guardian sat up, gasping under the wet blanket. “I’m not sure but that we had better break camp quickly, girls—fly for shelter—that barn isn’t far off.”
“Nor the old b’ar who said we were ‘beyond God bless you!’ either,” piped Dorothy glumly.