"And I don't care!
We're _doing_ something. Poor dear, is it worried? I'll race
you to the top of the hill."
The dark bulk of a building struck their sight at the top, and
they ran to it. Just now Mr. Wrenn was ready to devour alive
any irate householder who might try to turn them out. He found
the building to be a ruined stable--the door off the hinges, the
desolate thatch falling in. He struck a match and, holding it
up, standing straight, the master, all unconscious for once in
his deprecating life of the Wrennishness of Mr. Wrenn, he
discovered that the thatch above the horse-manger was fairly
waterproof.
"Come on! Up on the edge of the manger, Istra," he ordered.
"This is a perfectly good place for a murder," she grinned, as
they sat swinging their legs.
He could fancy her grinning. He was sure about it, and well content.
"Have I been so very grouchy, Mouse? Don't you want to murder
me? I'll try to find you a long pin."
"Nope; I don't think so, much. I guess we can get along without
it this time.
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