"Believe I'll walk with you, Wilfred; I'm turning to a lady-icicle."
"Do! I know it would warm you up—a little." His teeth showed an inclination to chatter. "Come—I'll help you down. Can you find my arm?"
At that moment the horse gave a violent lunge, then came to a standstill, quivering and snorting with fright. Wilfred's groping arm found the saddle empty.
"I didn't have to climb down," announced her uncertain voice from a distance. It came seemingly from the level of the plain.
"You've fallen—you are hurt!" he exclaimed, but he could not go to her because the horse refused to budge from the spot and he dared not loosen his hold.
"Well, I'm a little warmer, anyway!" Her voice approached slowly. "That was quick exercise; I didn't know I was going to do it till I was down. Lit on my feet, anyhow. Why don't you come to meet me?"
"This miserable beast won't move a foot. Come and hold him, Lahoma, while I examine in front, to find out what's scared him."
"All right. Where are you? Can you find my hand?"
"Can't I!" retorted Wilfred, clasping it in a tight grasp.
"Gracious, how wet we are!" she panted, "and blown about. And frozen."