“Come on! Up on the edge of the manger, Istra,” he ordered.
“This is a perfectly good place for a murder,” she grinned, as they sat swinging their legs.
He could fancy her grinning. He was sure about it, and well content.
“Have I been so very grouchy, Mouse? Don’t you want to murder me? I’ll try to find you a long pin.”
“Nope; I don’t think so, much. I guess we can get along without it this time.”
“Oh dear, dear! This is very dreadful. You’re so used to me now that you aren’t even scared of me any more.”
“Gee! I guess I’ll be scared of you all right as soon as I get you into a dry place, but I ain’t got time now. Sitting on a manger! Ain’t this the funniest place!… Now I must beat it out and find a house. There ought to be one somewheres near here.”
“And leave me here in the darknesses and wetnesses? Not a chance. The rain’ll soon be over, anyway. Really, I don’t mind a bit. I think it’s rather fun.”
Her voice was natural again, natural and companionable and brave. She laughed as she stroked her wet shoulder and held his hand, sitting quietly and bidding him listen to the soft forlorn sound of the rain on the thatch.
But the rain was not soon over, and their dangling position was very much like riding a rail.