“We’ve got to get him home somehow,” Jo answered. “I wonder if he can walk.” She turned to the boy, and smiled encouragingly. “Can you come a little way with us, sonny?”
His eyes filled with tears again, but he nodded.
“Tell you what, girls,” said Jo, briskly, “I’ll try to carry him a bit. You two go ahead and trample down the snow as much as you can, and I’ll follow. It’s like a story, isn’t it?”
She got the little lad up, wrapping her cloak round him, and holding him snuggled close. He put his arms round her neck, and smiled.
“Dear little cold thing,” Jo muttered hoarsely, and then began to struggle back home as well as she might. But very soon she had to sit down and rest.
“I’ll take him now, Jo,” said Rose. “We can do it somehow, turn and turn about.”
And so they did, but it was awfully hard work. The youngster fell asleep, shivering still, for he was wet with melted snow, and his torn shoes showed bare toes. A forlorn mite!
The skating party was forgotten as the three girls struggled homeward through the drifts. Pretty nearly exhausted themselves, they finally reached the cottage. The lamp was lighted in the living room, and the light streamed hospitably down across the path.
Mrs. Marsh met them at the door.
“What is it, girls? Why, what little boy—the poor child! Jo, run and tell Hannah to get some milk heated.”