“I dunno. Rich folks ain’t as lib’ral as they might be. And ye’d never cra’led—not on yer han’s an’ knees—to the next neighbor. Mind that, now!”
“I am quite sure,” said Dorothy, humbly, “that I should have fallen in the snow had not your house been near.”
“Well! I’ll make ye somehow comferble. Till marnin’ anyhow. Thin we’ll see. If it kapes on snowin’ like this, though, Miss, ’twill be a blizzard an’ no knowin’ when ye’ll git back to that school.”
“If only Mrs. Pangborn—and Tavia—and all the others—won’t be scared about me,” murmured Dorothy.
“They’ll be sure ye warn’t fule enough to go on, and on, when it began ter snow so,” grunted the woman. “’Tis lucky our frinds think better av our sinse than we desarve. They’ll be sure ye wint into some house when it began to storm so hard, me gur-r-rl.”
Meanwhile Dorothy had removed her hat and coat and Mrs. Hogan hung them to dry behind the big cookstove which set well out from the chimney-piece. She advised her guest to sit up to the stove and dry the bottom of her skirt, while she herself got into a man’s storm-coat and gloves, lit a lantern, and sallied forth, as she said, “to see what that ormadoun, Jim Bentley, was doing to the hoss.”
The moment she was gone Celia ran into Dorothy’s open arms. The child clung around the neck of Dorothy, and whispered:
“Don’t you be afraid, lady. She won’t hurt you.”
“Does she hurt you, Celia?” demanded the older girl. “Does she whip you?”
“Oh, no! Not unless I’m real bad. But—but she doesn’t like little girls—not a little, teeny bit. I—I wisht I lived with somebody that liked little girls, lady.”