“I don’t half like going out,” said Jean. “I wish we could slip away.”
“We couldn’t do that,” Norah said, shaking her head. “Come on. We’d better hurry, because Dad and the boys will be over. The rain has nearly stopped.”
They found the rest of their party in the kitchen, when they made their way out presently, considerably refreshed. Their hostess was bustling about, setting out cups and saucers. She met their half-nervous glances quite cheerfully.
“Perhaps you two would butter some scones for me,” she said. She smiled at them—a kindly look that told them they had nothing to worry about. And Norah and Jean took the task thankfully.
“Now what are you going to do?”
Their hostess asked the question of Mr. Linton across the empty teapot. It was a large teapot, but it had been filled and emptied twice. Now every one was feeling better.
“You can’t go camping to-night,” she went on. “The ground will be soaking and you’d get your death of cold. Besides, it may rain again; I don’t believe it’s all over yet.”
“Oh, camping is out of the question,” Mr. Linton answered. “We’ll have to find shelter in the township, that’s all. I suppose there’s an hotel?”
“If you call it one,” said the woman, sniffing. “Sort of bush shanty, I should call it—and not too good a specimen at that. Very rough style, and not too clean—and that’s putting a pretty fine point upon it. You couldn’t possibly take these children there.” She nodded in a friendly way at Jean and Norah.
“H’m—that’s awkward,” said the squatter. “Are there any farms about that would take us in?”