“Dorothy, you’ve got to stop that!” she cried. “There isn’t anything to laugh about—really, you know.”
“That’s why I’m laughing, I guess!” retorted Dorothy.
But she had stopped her untimely mirth and was gazing moodily enough at the sodden, dreary forest about them.
“We shouldn’t be standing under a tree in a thunder and lightning storm,” she said absently. “It’s dangerous.”
It was Tavia’s turn to laugh.
“So I’ve heard,” she said. “And if you can tell me any way that we can avoid it, I’ll be very grateful. Oh, Doro, what’s the use? We are just stuck, that’s all.”
That fact was so obvious that Dorothy did not take the trouble to answer it.
“It’s all my fault,” said Tavia after a moment, her voice sounding queer and remote above the clamor of the storm. “I ought to have looked where I was going.”
“It isn’t your fault any more than mine,” Dorothy declared. “Anyway, nobody could look where she was going in this storm.”
“Well, I suppose we might as well go on,” said Tavia, slapping the reins upon the pony’s sleek and steaming back. “If we have luck we may stumble on the path.”