Harriet stretched her stiff limbs and staggered to her feet, but Sally would not wake, so presently she gathered her up again, and went slowly down the hill, sobbing and panting under her heavy burden, pausing every few minutes to rest and breathe.
When she got down into the village street, it seemed alive with men. The doors were all wide open, and there were lanterns everywhere. At her Mother's door there was a silent group, with the minister in the midst, and as Harriet pushed her way through they fell back and made a passage to her Mother's side. She was sitting on the step, with her face hidden, and her hair disordered.
"Mother," said Harriet, in a sobbing voice, "we're back safe."
The woman started to her feet, and took them both into her capacious arms. She was trembling so much that she could not speak.
"She hasn't got cold, Mother," said Harriet eagerly, "feel her feet—they are as warm as toast."
"Oh, my dear, my dear," said her Mother.
"And she hasn't got tired neither," went on Harriet quietly. "I've carried her all the way."
"And you?" said the Minister. He had come to the front, and was beaming on her through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.
"I? Oh, I?" said Harriet, staring—"I'm a big girl—there doesn't need no one to mind me—Sally's a baby."