“Oh, Stephen, come directly, and help me bring the mother in; she is out in the snow, spent with toil, and if we arrive not soon she will be dead.”
“I have some warm milk on the fire; here, Susan, give some to the babe and give me the rest,” and putting it into a horn, the two started back, leaving the infant with the keeper’s wife.
They reach the tree again.
How still she is.
Giles trembles, bless his tender heart. It is no discredit to thy manhood, Giles.
“Yes, she is dead, she has given her last kiss to the babe.”
They put together some short poles and cord they have brought, which make a sort of litter.
“Carry her gently, Stephen,” says Giles as he wipes his eyes with the sleeves of his smock, “carry her gently, she said the good angels were near her, and I believe they are watching us now, if they are not on the road to paradise with her soul.”
