“Well, Duck, the thunder and lightning are getting farther away,” said Bill, truly, “but I do believe it rains harder than ever!  What can we do?”

“Can’t we get under the car?” suggested Daisy.

“Not very well; and it wouldn’t help much.  It’s rather wet, even under there,” and Bill looked at the soaked road.

“We passed a house about a mile back,” said Patty, “couldn’t we walk back to that?”

“I thought of that,” said Bill, “but I didn’t suppose you girls could walk it,—­with those foolish step-ladder heels you’re wearing.  And white satin slippers aren’t real good style for mud-wading.  I could carry you, Miss Fairfield,—­you’re only a will-o’- the-wisp; but Daisy here is a heavyweight.”

“Oh, no matter about me,” said Daisy, spitefully; “just see that Miss Fairfield is looked after!”

Big Bill Farnsworth looked at the speaker.  “Daisy Dow,” he said, quietly, “don’t you get me any more riled than I am!  If you do, I won’t be pleasant!”

“But I can walk,” put in Patty, anxious to prevent a quarrel.  “I haven’t on walking boots exactly, but I can flounder along somehow.  And we must get to shelter!  Help me along, Jack, and I’ll try not to mind the thunder and lightning.”

“Plucky little girl!” said Farnsworth, and Daisy scowled in the darkness.

“What time is it?” asked Patty, who was now thoroughly ready to face the situation.

“Just twelve o’clock,” replied Jack, after several futile attempts to light a match and see his watch.

“Then we must try to get to that house,” declared Patty.  “I had no idea it was so late.  Come, people, no matter what the result, we must try to reach shelter and civilisation.”

“Right!” said Pennington.  “It’s the only thing to do.  I remember the house.  There was no light in it, though.”

“No; it’s so late.  But we can ring up the family, and they’ll surely take us in for the night.”

“Not if they see us first!” exclaimed Bill.  “Oh, Miss Fairfield, you look like Ophelia with those flowers tumbling all over your face!”

Patty laughed, and removing the apple-blossom wreath from her head, was about to throw it away.  But she felt it gently taken from her hand in the darkness, and she somehow divined that Farnsworth had put it in his pocket.

The combination of this sentimental act with the drenched condition of the flower wreath—­and, presumably, the pocket, was too much for Patty, and she giggled outright.

“What are you laughing at?” snapped Daisy. “I don’t see anything funny in this whole performance.”

“Oh, do think it’s funny, Daisy,” implored Patty, still laughing.  “Oh, do! for it isn’t funny at all, unless we make it so by thinking it is so!”

“Stop talking nonsense,” Daisy flung back.  “Oh, I’ve sprained my ankle.  I can’t walk at all!  Oh, oh!”