"Ada, Mrs. Vance, are either of you hurt?" he inquired, anxiously.
Mrs. Vance was already on her feet, shaking the loose snow from her hair and dress.
"I believe I am quite uninjured beyond the shock of the fall," said she. "Are you, Lance?"
"Oh! I am all right," said he; "but, Ada, my dear girl, are you hurt?"
Ada answered his query with a moan of pain, but made no effort to rise. He bent over her and lifted the slight form in his strong arms.
"Can you stand?" he inquired, anxiously.
"Oh, no—no!" she moaned. "My ankle seems to be twisted or sprained, and my head struck something hard like a rock in falling. It aches dreadfully."
She burst into tears, sobbing aloud in her pain. Lance looked about him in despair.
There he was in the road, several miles from the city, with two helpless females to take care of, and his broken sleigh lying useless, the horses quite out of sight. Worse than all, Ada lying helpless in his arms, unable to stand or walk, and moaning like a child in her acute suffering.
"This is terrible," he said. "What can we do, Mrs. Vance?"