Tavia had made no outcry; but now, in the midst of the snow cloud that had been kicked up, she saw that Nat was floundering in the drift.
“Oh, Nat! are you hurt?” she moaned, and ran to him.
But he was already gingerly getting upon his feet. He had lost his cap, and the neck of his coat, where the big collar flared away, was packed with snow.
“Badly hurt—in my dignity,” he growled. “Oh gee, Tavia! Come and scoop some of this snow out of my neck.”
She giggled at that. She could not help it, for he looked really funny. Nevertheless she lent him some practical aid, and after he had shaken himself out of the loose snow and found his cap, he could grin himself at the situation.
“We’re castaway in the snow, just the same, old girl,” he said. “What’ll we do—start back and go through North Birchland, the beheld of all beholders, or take the crossroad back to The Cedars—and so save a couple of miles?”
“Oh, let’s go home the quickest way,” she said. “I—I don’t want to be the laughing stock for the whole town.”
“My fault, Tavia. I’m sorry,” he said ruefully.
“No more your fault than it was mine,” she said loyally.
“Oh, yes it was,” he groaned, looking at her seriously. “And it always is my fault.”