“Let the young ladies come in here—quick! There’s a shed over there for the horses.”
“Off you get, girls!” Mr. Linton said. Jean and Norah slipped to the ground, yielding their bridles into ready hands, and ran up the garden path behind their hostess. The rain was pelting upon the iron roof of the little cottage with a noise like musketry.
“I don’t think you’re very wet,” panted the woman. She darted into the house, returning with towels, and rubbed them down as they stood on the verandah, despite their protests.
“We’re truly all right,” Norah told her. “Thank you ever so much. But what luck! Five minutes later and we’d have been soaked to the skin but for your house. And it isn’t a joke to get everything wet through when you’re camping, as we are, and travelling as light as possible.”
“I should think not,” said their hostess—a tall woman, whitefaced and delicate in appearance, with tired grey eyes, that had black half circles beneath them. “Fact is, I’ve been looking out for you—the storekeeper in the township was telling me Mr. Linton’s party was to come through Atholton this evening. I’ve been thinking about you all the afternoon, wondering if the storm would catch you.”
“You were very good,” Jean told her, shyly.
“Oh, I don’t know. There isn’t so much to think about in these places—one’s glad of any excitement. I’d have been more excited if I’d known it wasn’t only men riding. It’s a big ride for you two girls.”
“We’re used to it,” said Norah. “It’s been lovely, until to-day; that has certainly been a bit hot. It’s hot still, isn’t it?”
“Close as ever it can be,” said the woman. “But the rain’ll cool it.” She peeped round the corner of the verandah, putting her head into the rain. “They’re all right in the shed, horses and all. Will you go into the house and sit down and rest?”
“I think it’s nice out here,” Norah said, hesitatingly.