The two homeless creatures grasped Westy’s hands in their gratitude and he noticed that the worst of their grief was now passed. They seemed to be resigned and watched their beloved little home gradually reduced to a heap of burning embers, as the fire died out on the edge of the brook.
Westy felt a drop of rain on his forehead, then another, and as it started to patter steadily on the dry leaves they arose from the ground.
Why couldn’t that have happened before? he thought. Fate always worked things backwards, and he spoke his thoughts to Lola.
“No, not backwards,” she said gravely, “but for the best.”
Wonderful people, he told himself. Take life, death and laughter just as it comes.
As they walked into the darkness toward the shack, Westy saw them turn—a look on their faces as they viewed the desolate scene that perplexed him. It seemed to be a look of relief, as though they had been freed of the bonds that bound them to the past.
Joining him again, he heard Lola sigh wearily and wondered if it were sleepiness or a sigh of doubt as to the future.
CHAPTER XLI—WESTY HAS A PART TO PLAY
They met Rip, his uncle and Billy before they were half way. As he told them later, they’d make a fine lot of applicants for volunteer firemen, sleeping as sound as that.
“Well, how did we know?” Rip asked; “you never let us know!”