"Blackie, Blackie," he cried in his pony's ear. "My dear old Blackie, do your best!"
The pony neighed and struggled on as best he could, but it was terribly hard work and he floundered about miserably. It was all Cyril could do to stick on. Once he thought it would be impossible to do so any longer, and looked back.
Then he saw the girl who had come so opportunely to their aid had a still harder task than his. Leaving the horses to follow his pony, she was working hard with both hands at shovelling the snow off the sleigh, which jumped about and jolted up and down owing to the plunges of the horses and the drifts of snow it encountered.
"I don't care if she does call me a little one!" said Cyril to himself, forgiving her everything at that moment. "She's a heroine, a real, splendid heroine!" And again he urged Blackie forward.
He was absorbed in the difficulties of the way, and so blinded by the snow that he was quite unconscious they had passed the place where the track parted in two directions, and were now pursuing the left one instead of the right. But the girl knew what she was doing, and when at last even Blackie fell on his knees and Cyril alighted on his hands and feet, unhurt, on the snow and a yard ahead of his pony, she called out encouragingly—
"It's all right. We're just close to a house. You're a brave lad, for all you are so small!"
Cyril got up, leaving Blackie to recover his feet as he could, and made his way to her side.
"Do you say there is a house?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes; through those trees. Do you see that narrow opening? There. Look! 'Tis a path that leads to the door. It isn't many yards."
"Hurrah!" cried Cyril. "How can we get father there?" he asked.