Ben started as the cold nose touched his fingers, gave the soft head a lingering pat, and watched the dog out of sight through a thicker mist than any the rain made.  But Bab broke down; for the wistful look of the creature’s eyes reminded her of lost Sancho, and she sobbed quietly as she glanced back longing to see the dear old fellow jogging along in the rear.

Ben heard the piteous sound and took a sly peep over his shoulder, seeing such a mournful spectacle that he felt appeased, saying to himself as if to excuse his late sternness: 

“She is a naughty girl, but I guess she is about sorry enough now.  When we get to that sign-post I’ll speak to her, only I wont forgive her till Sanch comes back.”

But he was better than his word; for, just before the post was reached, Bab, blinded by tears, tripped over the root of a tree, and, rolling down the bank, landed in a bed of wet nettles.  Ben had her out in a jiffy, and vainly tried to comfort her; but she was past any consolation he could offer, and roared dismally as she wrung her tingling hands, with great drops running over her cheeks almost as fast as the muddy little rills ran down the road.

“Oh dear, oh dear!  I’m all stinged up, and I want my supper; and my feet ache, and I’m cold, and everything is so horrid!” wailed the poor child lying on the grass, such a miserable little wet bunch that the sternest parent would have melted at the sight.

“Don’t cry so, Babby; I was real cross, and I’m sorry.  I’ll forgive you right away now, and never shake you any more,” cried Ben, so full of pity for her tribulations that he forgot his own, like a generous little man.

“Shake me again, if you want to; I know I was very bad to tag and lose Sanch.  I never will any more, and I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to do,” answered Bab, completely bowed down by this magnanimity.

“Never mind; you just wipe up your face and come along, and we’ll tell Ma all about it, and she’ll fix us as nice as can be.  I shouldn’t wonder if Sanch got home now before we did,” said Ben, cheering himself as well as her by the fond hope.

“I don’t believe I ever shall, I’m so tired my legs wont go, and the water in my boots makes them feel dreadfully.  I wish that boy would wheel me a piece.  Don’t you s’pose he would?” asked Bab, wearily picking herself up as a tall lad trundling a barrow came out of a yard near by.

“Hullo, Joslyn!” said Ben, recognizing the boy as one of the “hill fellows” who come to town Saturday nights for play or business.

“Hullo, Brown,” responded the other, arresting his squeaking progress with signs of surprise at the moist tableau before him.

“Where goin’?” asked Ben with masculine brevity.

“Got to carry this home, hang the old thing!”

“Where to?”

“Batchelor’s, down yonder,” and the boy pointed to a farm-house at the foot of the next hill.