"I thought it might stop any minute," said Betty; "it seemed a pity to
waste a morning."

"Yes," he said musingly, "it would be a pity to waste a morning. I
would not waste one of these mornings for a kingdom."

Betty fumbled with her sketching things as a sort of guarantee of good
faith.

"But it's too wet to work," said she. "I suppose I'd better go home
again."

"That seems a dull idea--for me," he said; "it's very selfish, of
course, but I'm rather sad this morning. Won't you stay a little and
cheer me up?"

Betty asked nothing better. But even to her a tete-a-tete in a wood,
with rain pattering and splashing on leaves and path and resonant
mackintoshes, seemed to demand some excuse.

"I should think breakfast and being dry would cheer you up better than
anything," said she. "And it's very wet here."

"Hang breakfast! But you're right about the wetness. There's a shed in
the field yonder. A harrow and a plough live there; they're sure to be
at home on a day like this. Let's go and ask for their hospitality."

"I hope they'll be nice to us," laughed Betty; "it's dreadful to go
where you're not wanted."