Grandpa and the children left her to her bustling. There was much to be done before the helicopter came. Misty had to be brought into the kitchen and, before that, the marsh ponies in the hay house had to be made comfortable.
"Let's lift down the top bales," Grandpa directed when they reached the long shed. "We'll pile 'em two deep over the hull floor. That way even their feet'll be dry."
"And if we don't break open the bales," Paul said, "it'll take them just that much longer to eat the hay."
"They could live for a week in here," Maureen said.
"'Zackly!" Grandpa nodded. "No need to worry 'bout them."
Then it was Misty's turn. Paul had expected to lead her out of her stall quietly and that she would foot her way along carefully, as any broodmare should. But the moment he put on her halter, she began quivering as if the wind and waves called up the wildness in her. Her head went up, her tail went up, her ears pricked sharply. And even in the bitter cold she broke out in sweat.
"Whoa there, girl, whoa," Paul soothed. He slid his hand through her halter as he opened her door. But with one leap she was in the water, lifting him off his feet. She didn't want to be led. She wanted to splash and play like any Chincoteague pony.