But Miles fought to do his best. He only consented to stop and deposit his burden on the grass when he felt that, did he not do so, he would be compelled to drop it.
Then, after resting a moment or two, he would be off again.
“Don’t; you will strain yourself,” Rex whispered once, protestingly.
But Miles’s only answer was, “I must. You can’t be out here in the storm.”
In this way they progressed until they had nearly reached the house. Then the rain began to come down in torrents.
Miles made a last desperate effort. Picking Rex up, he ran the intervening distance, although it was twice as far as he usually bore his burden without stopping.
He dashed in at the gate and then, so exhausted was he that he sank down beside Rex when he deposited the latter on the floor of the piazza. He lay there breathing hard, while the rain came down in sheets.
He had not even strength to turn his head when he heard the screen door behind him open and some one come out.
“Who—who are you and what do you want?”
The question was put by a very sweet girlish voice. And the girl who put it was herself exceedingly pretty.