“Why the woodyard?” asked Gar, laconically.
“They’re for Orilla—”
“Any objections?” demanded the girl just spoken of. She also was now visible, having come through a mass of clotted hazel nut trees, and she too looked like a picture from some foreign land, where women do all the chores.
“Yes, we have objections, Orilla Rigney,” spoke up Dell, sharply, “and you ought to know well enough what they are.”
“Let’s help them load their boat,” interposed Nancy, fearful that the unpleasant discussion would develop into something more serious. “Here, Rosa, I’ll take some of those—”
“Do—please,” murmured Rosa, her voice now betraying what Nancy feared—exhaustion. “I’m almost dead,” she whispered, as the defiant Orilla made her way down to the boat. “I was never so frightened in—my life!”
“Neither was I,” returned Nancy. “I’m shaking yet. What ever got into her—”
“Hush! She’s excited and ugly—”
“What ever—”
“Let me lug those logs if you must have them,” called out Gar, in his roughly frank, boyish way. “Goin’ to start a new cure, Orilla? Is this tree bark good for snake bites or something?”