It was Jarvis who, with a hoarse ejaculation of thankfulness, came first upon a fold of the blue skirt.  Sally had not been under the heaviest part of the load, and doubtless it was only the smother of the hay which kept her from calling out—­if the fall itself had not hurt her.  In a minute more they had her out, very red and choky, her eyes blinded with dust, her curls full of hay-seed; and she was lying on a soft mound of the fragrant stuff, the girls fanning her, Ferry bringing her lemonade from the pail, and Jarvis watching her with his heart in his eyes—­only, fortunately, considering the conversation of the morning, her own eyes were too full of sticks to see.

“You’re not hurt anywhere, dear?” one or other of the girls asked her, at close intervals, and Sally shook her head each time, until at length she was able to clear her throat enough to murmur:  “Only my feelings, as Jake said.  It was so—­silly—­of me!”

“It was much worse than silly—­of us,” vowed Donald Ferry, his fine, freckled face a deep Indian-red with heat and anxiety, his breath still a trifle laboured with the furious exertion of the rescue.

But in a very short time she was all right again, and sitting up on her hay throne, watching the wrecked load being pitched back upon the wagon.

The horses had not escaped, for a dozen boys had set after them, headed by the tall youth, and the boot-blacks and news-boys had proved themselves decidedly more efficient at stopping runaways than at making symmetrical hay-cocks.

“If you have any regard for my pride,” said Sally suddenly, when the load was half replaced, “you’ll let me drive down to the barn.”

The three men stopped and looked at her.

“That’s mighty plucky of you, Miss Sally,” declared Donald Ferry, “but—­if you have any regard for our feelings—­” and he let an eloquent shake of the head finish his sentence for him.

Jarvis said nothing.  But a certain peculiar set of his jaw, as he went on with his pitching, spoke volumes.

As for Jake Kelly—­“Wall, I want to know!” said he.  Then he laughed outright.  “I calc’late, miss,” said he, “ef you ride on that thar’ load o’ hay again to-day it’ll be because them two’s rendered incompetent o’ action!  An’ they don’t look to me much ’sif paralysis would set in yit awhile!”

CHAPTER XV

ON AN AUGUST EVENING

“Oh, dear—­who’s this coming?—­just as we’ve settled down to accomplish something!”

“It’s the Chases.  Girls—­we simply can’t stop work to entertain them!”

“We don’t need to stop—­this sort of work.”

They bent over their sewing—­all but Sally, who with inward reluctance got to her feet as the Chases’ big car rolled up the driveway and approached the porch, where the four girls were sitting, busy with some extremely important matters.  But of course the work had to be put down for a little when Dorothy Chase actually set foot on the porch.