They walked in silence for about a quarter of a mile. The rain swept
upon her skirt and feet; she saw it falling thick on either side; she
saw it beating upon Smith's shoulder, upon one side of his hat, and
dripping from his light hair. The wind was so strong that the very drops
that trickled from his hair were blown backward. His blue coat was
old--not much protection, she thought, against the storm.

The false prophet had hitherto appeared quite as terrible to her
imagination and as far removed from real life as the wild beast of story
books; now he appeared very much like any other man--rather more kind in
his actions, perhaps, and distrait in his thought. Susannah began to
think herself a discoverer.

"You are not keeping the rain off yourself."

"It don't matter about me. I don't mind getting wet."

His tone carried conviction. After a while gratitude again stirred her
into speech.

"I'm afraid you find it awfully hard holding up the umbrella."

He gave a glance downward at her as she toiled by his side. "Why you're
most blown away as it is. You couldn't get along without the umbrellar."
Regarding her attentively for a minute, he added, "Emmar will be vexed
when she hears that your dress got so splashed."

They were both bending somewhat forward against the wind; the road
beneath them was glistening with standing water. When they passed by the