There was a dark mound on the snow against a tree trunk, and dropping beside it he turned it over.
"Thank the Lord!" he ejaculated, while scratching and beating the snow away from it, "it ain't what I feared."
"Why, it's only a gal," said one of the boys. "Is she gone, pop?"
"Here—shake her up," he replied. "What's this she's curled round? A dog, sure as thunder, an' alive an' warm. Merciful grindstones, look at him!"
Irritably stepping out of wrappings, consisting of a small tippet and a shawl, was a little old dog, the most utter contrast to the handsome deerhound that could have been imagined.
The hound stared inquiringly and politely at Gippie, and, being a denizen of the woods, made the first overtures to friendship by politely touching him with the end of his muzzle.
The smaller dog snapped at him, whereupon the hound withdrew in dignified silence, and watched his owners, who were making vigorous efforts to restore the benumbed girl.
"Her heart's beatin'," said Lucas, putting his hand on it. "The dog lay there, an' kep' it warm."
"Rub her feet—rub harder," he said to his sons, while he himself began chafing 'Tilda Jane's wrists. "She's jist the age o' your sister Min. S'pose she was here, stone cold an' half dead!"