The sun came out again to light them; on the green leaves about them the wetness glittered and dried and the ephemeral shower seemed as unreal as the memory it evoked.
With her head bent Maria Angelina pressed on in a haste that grew into anxiety. Not a sound came back to them from those others ahead. Not a voice. Not a footstep.
And presently the path appeared dying under their feet.
Green moss overspread it. Brambles linked arms across it.
"They are not here. We are on the wrong way," cried Maria Angelina and turned startled eyes on the young man.
Johnny Byrd refused to take alarm.
"They must have crossed the river farther back—that's the answer," he said easily. "We went past the right crossing—probably just after the storm. You know you were speeding like a two-year-old on the home stretch."
But Ri-Ri refused to shoulder all that blame.
"It might have been before the storm—while we were lingering so," she urged distressfully. "You know that for so long we had heard nothing—we ought to go back quickly—very quickly and find that crossing."
Johnny did not look back. He looked across the river, which ran more deeply here between narrowed banks, and then glanced on ahead.