It was Walky Dexter, plowing his way through the drifts in hip boots.
"This is sure a white Christmas!" he bawled from the gate. "I got suthin' for you, Janice. Hi tunket! can't git through this here gate, so I'll climb over it. Wal, Janice, a Merry Christmas to ye!" he added, as he stumped up upon the porch, and handed her a little package from Miss 'Rill.
"I am afraid not a very merry one, Walky," said the girl, shaking his mittened hand. "Come inside by the fire. Uncle Jason, where is that paper? I want Mr. Dexter to read it."
"Oh, dear, me!" murmured Walky, when he saw the heading of the Mexican telegraph despatch. Then, with his fur cap cocked over one ear, and his boots steaming on the stove hearth, he read the story through. "Oh, dear, me!" he said again.
"I want you to try to get me to Middletown, Walky," Janice said, with a little catch in her voice. "Right away."
"Mercy on us, child! a day like this?" gasped her aunt.
"Why, the storm's over," said Janice, firmly. "And I must send some telegrams and get answers. Oh, I must! I must!"
"Hoity-toity, Miss Janice!" broke in Walky. "'Must' is a hard driver, I know. But I tell ye, we couldn't win through the drif's. Why, I been as slow as a toad funeral gettin' up here from High Street. The ox teams won't be out breakin' the paths before noon, and they won't get out of town before to-morrer, that's sure, Miss."
"Oh, my dear!" cried her aunt, again. "You mustn't think of doing such a thing. Wait."
"I can't wait," declared Janice, with pallid face and trembling lip, but her hazel eyes dry and hard. "I tell you I must know more."