"B'lindy's bones certainly did feel right," Nancy giggled, excitedly. "Oh-h!" at another flash. "Pe-ter! I'm—I'm such a coward. Don't you think that's the worst?"
Peter hoped that it wasn't. He did not mind at all the flashes that sent little quivers of alarm through Nancy and made her huddle closer to him; he enjoyed the sense of protecting her, though his face, bent grimly upon the puddled road ahead, gave no hint of his real feeling.
"If this bus only had its curtains! Are you soaked?"
"You are, too, Peter! Do you suppose this is a cloudburst? Can the car make it?" For the little Ford was floundering uncertainly along the flooded road.
"What an end to our picnic," declared Peter, disgustedly. "Ha—a house, as I live! See ahead there."
Through the sheet of rain Nancy made out a low-gabled cottage almost hidden by the trees.
"It looks deserted," she declared, disappointedly.
"It'll be shelter, anyway. Deserted nothing—hear the dog! When I stop make a dash for the door."
The dog's bark was by way of a welcome rather than a warning, for, as he bounded toward the road, his shaggy tail wagged in a most friendly way. As Nancy, following Peter's command, made a dash for shelter, the door of the cottage opened hospitably and a little old woman, unmindful of the fury of the rain, reached out to draw Nancy in.
"Come right in! Bless me, you're soaked." She had a cheery, piping voice and a way of repeating, "well, well, well," as though everything on earth was an exciting surprise.