Darkness was near. They had plunged into a country which in the night seemed to be a stretch of desolate moorlands. As they were silently plodding up a hill the rain came. It came with a roar, a pitiless drenching against which they fought uselessly, soaking them, slapping their faces, blinding their eyes. He caught her arm and dragged her ahead. She would be furious with him because it rained, of course, but this was no time to think of that; he had to get her to a dry place. Istra laughed: “Oh, isn’t this great! We’re real vagabonds now.” “Why! Doesn’t that khaki soak through? Aren’t you wet?” “To the skin!” she shouted, gleefully. “And I don’t care! We’re _doing_ something. Poor dear, is it worried? I’ll race you to the top of the hill.” The dark bulk of a building struck their sight at the top, and they ran to it. Just now Mr. Wrenn was ready to devour alive any irate householder who might try to turn them out. He found the building to be a ruined stable—the door off the hinges, the desolate thatch falling in. He struck a match and, holding it up, standing straight, the master, all unconscious for once in his deprecating life of the Wrennishness of Mr. Wrenn, he discovered that the thatch above the horse-manger was fairly waterproof. “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. “I’m so uncomfortable!” fretted Istra. “See here, Istra, please, I think I’d better go see if I can’t find a house for you to get dry in.” “I feel too wretched to go any place. Too wretched to move.” “Well, then, I’ll make a fire here. There ain’t much danger.” “The place will catch fire,” she began, querulously. But he interrupted her. “Oh, _let_ the darn place catch fire! I’m going to make a fire, I tell you!”