khaki of
the skirts, and the soisette blouses shedding the heavy rain more
readily, only because of the uniform straight lines and absence of
frilly pockets to catch the "buckets'" spill. As for hats--the girls
were utilizing these as shields, holding them at ever-swerving angles,
to keep the blinding rain out of their eyes.

The big black rock with torrents of water how gushing down its furrows
and rills, was reached at last and to the delight of the wayfarers it
did offer shelter.

"Why, just see here!" exclaimed Grace, the first to reach port, "here
is a cave. We said there ought to be caves in these mountains. And we
can all fit in out of the storm. Isn't this wonderful?"

"Port haven in our story, surely," quoth Lalia, "I thought I knew these
parts, but I never before discovered these Monte Cristo apartments.
Shall we ring for the janitor?"

"Pray do not," replied Cleo, swishing her reservoir hat around to empty
its contents. "Let us woo the wooseys undisturbed. I should like to
dump the mud out of my boots!"

The rain on the uncovered rocks was still splashing, and a strong wind
howling through the trees added to the din. Only at close range could
the girls make their voices intelligible. But it was so good to be
within shelter. Welcome indeed is any port in a storm.

"There must be more dugouts in this rock," Cleo said, attempting to
survey the curved bowlder that formed a huge support for the cedars
growing from its top, in a great swerving hedge, clear up into Second
Mountain.

"But one is enough for us," Grace reminded her. Then a sound
penetrated the now ceasing roar of the torrent. Voices surely,
somewhere!

"Hark!" All three girls uttered the exclamation simultaneously.

"It's at the other side!" whispered Cleo, "and it's a woman's voice."

They listened, scarcely breathing.

"That's Mary!" suddenly exclaimed Grace, in the same subdued voice. "I
know it is."

They waited a few seconds, listening. The first voice was now answered
by another. It was plainly that of the old woman Reda, for the queer,
rapid flow of language was not English.

"Reda!" whispered Cleo. "Is that Spanish?"

"Who's Reda?" repeated Lalia.

"The queer old woman with the little girl Mary," replied Cleo. "Are
you afraid of her?"

"No," answered Lalia with something of a sneer. "I guess we three
could manage her if we had to. Shall we peek?"

"Listen!" commanded Cleo.

Came a small voice through