The snow swept around her like a mantle. It gathered deeply at her feet. She no longer felt the keen air, but was sinking into a pleasant lethargy.
There was peril in this, and at another time Dorothy would have understood it fully. But she was not now in a state to understand what threatened her. She was only drowsy—weak—almost insensible. Another moment and she would have fallen in the snow and sunk into that sleep from which there would be no awakening.
And then, to her dim eyes, appeared a sudden glow of lamplight ahead. It could not be far away, for she heard the hinges of a door creak, and then a voice reached her ears:
“Come in here! What are you doing out in that snow—ye good-for-nothin’? Ain’t ye got no sinse, I wanter know? Av all the young ’uns that iver was bawn, it’s you is the wust av th’ lot. Come in here!”
Dorothy was aroused by these words. For a moment she thought the woman who spoke must be addressing her. Then she heard a thin little voice answer:
“Oh, Mrs. Hogan! I know I heard somebody hollerin’ in the snow. It’s somebody what’s lost, Mrs. Hogan.”
“Nonsinse! Come away, now—I’ll have no more av yer foolin’, Cely Moran. I’ll sind ye ter bed widout yer supper if ye don’t come in out o’ that snow——”
Dorothy hardly understood yet; but almost involuntarily she raised her voice in a cry of:
“Celia! Celia Moran!”
