Cyril looked round at her wonderingly. A vivid blush had overspread one of the prettiest faces he had ever seen. Her blue eyes shone with gladness. Her voice betrayed its happiness every time she spoke. She seemed altogether a different person from the girl who had driven his father there.
"Now, you're wondering what has repaid me," she said to Cyril. "Shouldn't be surprised if I tell you after tea. You make that kettle boil sharp."
The boy laughed and poked the wood, which was nice and dry, with his boot. But Cynthy reproved him for that, "Waste not, want not!" she exclaimed. "It's wrong to burn holes in good leather. Now, sir," she added to Mr. Morton, "let me try to take your boot off."
With gentle hands, in spite of his protest, she deftly removed Mr. Morton's boot from his injured foot, then, fetching a basin from the inner room, she bathed it in warm water, filling the kettle up again after she had emptied it.
"It's swollen, sir," she said to her patient, "but I think it's more bruised than sprained; I'll bind it up for you."
"You are very kind, Miss Wood," said Mr. Morton.
"Now don't," she said. "Call me Cynthy, everyone does. Cyril, you fetch me that stool," pointing to one with three legs. "Now, sir, you must keep your foot up on the stool. Cyril, you and I must go back to the sleigh for some things I left there."
It was no easy task, but they struggled through the snow back to the sleigh, which was already nearly buried in it.
"The poor horses," said Cynthy; "I'd forgotten them. I shall cut them loose; they must look after themselves. I have no food for them. I think they will go home. Then my father will send to seek us."
Blackie was delighted to see Cyril again; he had stood still, waiting for him to return, and now he put his cold nose in the boy's hands, and seemed to ask him not to go away again.