He turned to Rex again. He took the coat from under his head and made him put it on. “It’s going to storm,” he said, “I’m going to carry you to that house.” “You can’t,” was all Rex had strength to say. “I’m going to try,” returned Miles, and he gathered Rex up in his arms just as the wind came sweeping down upon them in a gust that was ominous of that which was to follow. CHAPTER XXI MILES HARDING It was physically impossible for Miles Harding to carry Rex very far without stopping to rest. The life of a tramp, with insufficient nourishment, was not calculated to strengthen the long arms which could easily wrap themselves about the other boy, but had little power to retain him in their embrace. 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. She had opened the door that led out from the wide, breezy hall, and stepped upon the piazza. She now looked down upon the two boys lying there with undisguised astonishment. Then she came around so that Miles could see her. “I beg your pardon, miss,” he said, stopping between every three or four words to take breath; “I wanted to get—him out of the—rain. This was the nearest—house. I hope you don’t mind.” “Is he ill?” she asked. Rex’s face was turned partly towards her. It was very pale now, but Florence Raynor was thinking also how very handsome it was and in what contrast to that of the fellow who had answered her. “Yes, he’s very sick, I’m afraid,” replied Miles. “Is he your brother?” went on Florence. “Oh, no; just—a friend.” Miles hesitated before he added the last word; then when he had said it a look of pride came into his eyes for an instant. “I’ll call mother,” said the girl, and she hurried off to the kitchen, where Mrs. Raynor was making cake.