But now, in another minute, there were traces again. The little feet seemed to have turned aside at a tangent, and once more sought the deep snow. From that point he did not again lose them; they carried him to the low and narrow dell (not much better than a ditch) which just there skirted the hedge bordering the Ravine.
At first Tod could see nothing. Nothing but the drifted snow. But—looking closely—what was that, almost at his feet? Was it only a dent in the snow?—or was anything lying on it? Tod knelt down on the deep soft white carpet (sinking nearly up to his waist) and peered and felt.
There she was: Nettie Trewin! With her flaxen curls fallen about her head and mingling with the snow, and her little arms and neck exposed, and her pretty white frock all wet, she lay there in the deep hole. Tod, his breast heaving with all manner of emotion, gathered her into his arms, as gently as an infant is hushed to rest by its mother. The white face had no life in it; the heart seemed to have stopped beating.
“Wake up, you poor little mite!” he cried, pressing her against his warm side. “Wake up, little one! Wake up, little frozen snow-bird!”
But there came no response. The child lay still and white in his arms.
“Hope she’s not frozen to death!” he murmured, a queer sensation taking him. “Nettie, don’t you hear me? My goodness, what’s to be done?”
He set off across the field with the child, meeting me almost directly. I ran straight up to him.
“Get out, Johnny Ludlow!” he cried roughly, in his haste and fear. “Don’t stop me! Oh, a blanket, is it? That’s good. Fold it round her, lad.”
“Is she dead?”
“I’ll be shot if I know.”