aid easily. "It will be light
enough to ride to-night, even if it is cloudy."

"But we have that long stretch of woods, you know."

"I forgot that." Theodora spoke lower, and involuntarily glanced over
her shoulder. "How far is it?"

"Five miles. That won't take us long, and we're almost there now."

"Yes; but it's hilly and no track to speak of. Hurry, Hu! Let's ride
faster and get through it before that cloud gets over the moon. I wish
we had lanterns."

It is exciting work to race with a cloud. Vapors are unreliable things
at best, and are prone to roll up the sky with fateful swiftness. As
Hubert and Theodora came under the first of the trees, the cloud came
above them, and the moon vanished. Theodora was as plucky as a girl
could be; but there was something rather fearful to her in this dark and
lonely road, where she and Hubert were the only moving objects, but
where unknown beings might lurk in every shadow, ready to spring out and
drag her down to the earth. The formless fear lent an unsteadiness to
her progress, and she began to wobble.

"How dark it is!" she said, in an odd, constrained little voice. "It
must be very late, Hu. Can you see your watch?"

"It's not light enough."

"Haven't you a match?"

"No."

"I know we sha'n't get home at nine."

"We have till half past, you know. Keep up your pluck, Ted. We're all
right. Let's ride a little faster."

Half-way down the next hill, there came a clatter and a bump, followed
by a little moan from Theodora. Hubert sprang to the ground and ran to
her side.

"I slipped in the sand and had a fall, a bad one. I've done something to
my ankle."

"Is it sprained?"

"I'm afraid so."

Leaning heavily on his arm, she scrambled to her feet.

"What is it, Ted? Shall we go back?"

She shut her teeth for a moment.

"No; what's the use?"

"Sha'n't I go for somebody?"

"Where's the nearest house?"

"Two miles back."

She gave a little sigh of pain. Then she said steadily,--

"Take the wheels, Hu, and let me walk a little. It's better to go on,
and perhaps I can ride, if I get quieted down a little. I'm sorry to be
a baby," she added piteously; "but it does hurt so."

"Baby! You!" Hubert longed to pick his sister up in his arms and carry
her to a shelter; but it was impossible. Worst of all, he dared not
openly pity her. He knew that she was using all her self-control to keep
from crying with the pain, and that a single sympathetic word would
bre