They set out from the inn through the
brightening morning like lively boys on a vacation tramp.
The sun crept out, with the warmth and the dust, and Istra's
steps lagged. As they passed the outlying corner of a farm
where a straw-stack was secluded in a clump of willows Istra
smiled and sighed: "I'm pretty tired, dear. I'm going to sleep
in that straw-stack. I've always wanted to sleep in a
straw-stack. It's _comme il faut_ for vagabonds in the best set,
you know. And one can burrow. Exciting, eh?"
She made a pillow of her khaki jacket, while he dug down to a
dry place for her. He found another den on the other side of
the stack.
It was afternoon when he awoke. He sprang up and rushed around
the stack. Istra was still asleep, curled in a pathetically
small childish heap, her tired face in repose against the
brown-yellow of her khaki jacket. Her red hair had come down
and shone about her shoulders.
She looked so frail that he was frightened. Surely, too, she'd
be very angry with him for letting her come on this jaunt.
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