CHAPTER VIII.
Stafford and Ida remained, unconscious of the rain, looking after the carriage for a moment or two.
The sneer on the man's heavy yet acutely sharp face, still incensed Stafford.

He had the usual desire of the strong man--to dash after the rapidly disappearing vehicle, lug the fellow out and ask him what he was sneering at.
Ida was the first to speak.
"What a strange-looking man," she said.
Stafford started slightly, awaking to the fact that it was still pouring.
"I--I beg your pardon.

I'm keeping you out in the rain." He put Adonis, not at all unwillingly, to a trot, and they gained the rough cattle-shed, and he would have lifted the girl down, but she was too quick for him, and slipped gracefully and easily from the saddle.
Stafford, leading the horse, followed her into the shed.

Bess sat on the extreme end of her haunches shivering and blinking, and all too plainly cursing the British climate; but Donald threw himself down outside as if he regarded the deluge as a cheap shower-bath.
Stafford looked at Ida anxiously.
"You are fearfully wet," he said.

"I think I could wipe off the worst of it, if you'll let me." He took out his pocket handkerchief as he spoke and wiped the rain from her straight, beautifully moulded shoulders.