The boys were wet to the skin, and even on a scorching day in August that is anything but a pleasant sensation. Then, too, the way was rough, and the briers and brambles along the path scratched their hands and tore at their clothing. Ordinarily all these petty annoyances would have tended toward making them irritable and cross, but on this day all such trifles passed over their heads unnoticed. For had they not between them done a marvelous thing? To save one life—to have brought back from eternity one little soul—was there not joy enough in that to last them all their days? The girls thought there was.
After a walk that seemed endless, Will called out to the boys in the front: "Isn't it time for relief work, Allen? We must have traveled more than half a mile."
"We're not tired," Allen shouted back. "The hotel is right ahead—we can carry her for the rest of the way."
"Just as you say," Roy answered. "But we are ready whenever you want us."
"All right," called Allen. "We may be glad of your help yet;" and so the little party went on.
A few moments later they heard voices directly ahead, and Anita—for that, she had said, was her name—raised her voice excitedly. "They are probably coming in search of me," she cried, cheeks flushing with the hope of it. "I knew they would! Oh, I knew it! Dad! Conway!" she called.
"Nita! where are you?" a voice shouted back, unutterable relief vibrating in every syllable. "Call again!"
Anita obeyed with a will. "Just keep on the way you are coming. I'm all right, but please hurry!"
Then the two relief parties came face to face. Frank and Allen set the girl gently upon her feet and her father caught her in his arms. "You're safe!" he murmured over and over again. "My little girl!" and the others turned away before the depth of his emotion.
His weakness lasted only a moment, then recovering his self-control he handed Anita over to the affectionate bear hugs of an elder brother, and turned to his daughter's rescuers.