"Heigh-ho, Amy," said the much-muffled figure that they were taking from the sled; "I'm all right."
In strong reaction, the girl would have fallen, had not Webb supported her. He felt that she trembled and clung almost helplessly to him.
"Why, Amy," he said, gently, "you will take your death out here in the cold and snow"; and leaving the others to care for Burt, he lifted her in his arms and carried her in.
"Thank God, he's safe," she murmured. "Oh, we have waited so long! There, I'm better now," she said, hastily, and with a swift color coming into her pale cheeks, as they reached the door.
"You must not expose yourself so again, sister Amy."
"I thought—I thought when you began to lift Burt out—" But she could not finish the sentence.
"He has only sprained his ankle. Go tell mother."
Perhaps there is no joy like that which fills loving hearts when the lost is found. It is so pure and exalted that it is one of the ecstasies of heaven. It would be hard to describe how the old house waked up with its sudden accession of life—life that was so warm and vivid against the background of the shadow of death. There were murmured thanksgivings as feet hurried to and fro, and an opening fire of questions, which Maggie checked by saying:
"Possess your souls in patience. Burt's safe—that's enough to know until he is cared for, and my half-famished husband and the rest get their supper. Pretty soon we can all sit down, for I want a chance to hear too."
"And no one has a better right, Maggie," said her husband, chafing his hands over the fire. "After what we've seen to-night, this place is the very abode of comfort, and you its presiding genius;" and Leonard beamed and thawed until the air grew tropical around him.