Katy was circling around as gracefully and easily as if there were no such thing as falls to dread. Chicken Little began to lose faith in the superiority of her new skates.
“Katy skates most as well as the boys—I don’t see how she does it,” she said enviously.
“Cousin Sim taught her last winter. Oh, see, those boys are making an eight on the ice and,—Carol’s writing his name I do believe.”
“Yes, and there’s Pat and Mike—dear me, it seems as if everybody can skate just as easy ’cept me.”
The little girls stood watching the boys wistfully as they glided along cutting marvellous figures on the ice. The boys were bent on showing off for Marian’s benefit.
“Tired, little girls?” called the latter, skating gaily past, her cheeks rosy with exercise and the frosty air.
“No—o,” said Jane slowly, “I’m not tired but my ankles hurt and the ice seems to get slipprier and slipprier.”
“I’ll help you if you want me to,” said a voice at her elbow, and Chicken Little looked around to find Pat Casey standing shyly beside her, cap in hand.
“I think I could be after showing you how to do it.”
She hesitated a moment wondering what her mother would say to her skating with Pat, then deciding to take the chance, put out her hand with a little smile. Things went better after that for the Irish lad had a good deal of chivalry in his make-up and was very patient and careful.