Part 25 (1/2)

A rumble of thunder, closer and louder, startled them. Miss Milly sat bolt upright, white-faced, and reached out a hand.

”Oh--_sister_! _Not_ in the storm!”

B'lindy rose majestically and towered over her mistress. When, down behind her shut doors, that baby had gone to sleep in B'lindy's arms, something had wakened in her sixty-year old heart; it throbbed in her voice now. She spoke slowly. ”I guess the _Almighty_ sent Davy Hopworth here with this poor little young 'un! Like as not it would go hungry more'n once, and if three women here can't take care of a little baby--well, the Lord that suffered little children to come unto Him like's not will hold us to 'count for it! I guess Happy House would be a heap happier if there was less high and mightiness and more of the human milk of kindness in it, and doin' for others like little Miss Anne's always tryin' to do, anyway!” And quite breathless from her outburst B'lindy knelt beside the baby and defiantly folded sheltering arms over it.

For the briefest of moments no one stirred. Then Miss Sabrina rose hurriedly, and, mumbling something incoherent, left the room.

Across the baby B'lindy's eyes, feverishly bright, met Miss Milly's anxious glance.

”Don't know what she said, but, Milly Leavitt, sure's I'm alive I saw a _tear_ in Sabriny Leavitt's eye! I guess we keep this baby.”

CHAPTER XXII

REAL LEAVITTS AND OTHERS

The storm overtook Peter and Nancy on a lonely road that Peter had taken as a short-cut home.

At a sharp flash of lightning Nancy clutched Peter's arm.

”Pe-ter! Oh-h! It's silly for me to be afraid! It's only when it crackles!”

”I thought we could make Freedom before it broke. But I guess not.

Here comes the rain!”

It came, in a blinding deluge.

”Sit close to me, Nancy. We must get to a house _somewhere_ along this road!”

”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 s.h.a.ggy 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.

”Won't your young man come in, too. Sit right over here by the fire!