“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!”

“I don’t want to move.  It’ll just be another kind of discomfort, that’s all.  Why couldn’t you try and take a little bit of care of me, anyway?”

“Oh, hon-ey!” he wailed, in youthful bewilderment.  “I did try to get you to stay at that hotel in town and get some rest.”

“Well, you ought to have made me.  Don’t you realize that I took you along to take care of me?”

“Uh—­”

“Now don’t argue about it.  I can’t stand argument all the time.”

He thought instantly of Lee Theresa Zapp quarreling with her mother, but he said nothing.  He gathered the driest bits of thatch and wood he could find in the litter on the stable floor and kindled a fire, while she sat sullenly glaring at him, her face wrinkled and tired in the wan firelight.  When the blaze was going steadily, a compact and safe little fire, he spread his coat as a seat for her, and called, cheerily, “Come on now, honey; here’s a regular home and hearthstone for you.”

She slipped down from the manger edge and stood in front of him, looking into his eyes—­which were level with her own.