“I hope that the fox gets home to his den before the snow comes. He will, won’t he?”
“Of course he will. We’d better, too. Let’s try to run, Dessie—here along the trail—”
She regarded doubtfully the almost shapeless blobs of wrappings which concealed her feet. “My feet don’t run very well, Dardie. Too many coverings on them, maybe. And they’re cold now—”
Not frostbite—not frostbite! he prayed. They had been lucky so far. Of course they were always cold, and very often hungry. But they had had no accidents, nor serious illnesses.
“Run!” he commanded sharply, and Dessie’s short-legged shuffle became a trot.
But, when they reached the screen of second-growth brush at the end of the north field, she halted in obedience to old orders. Dard shrugged off the bundle of firewood and dropped to his hands and knees, crawling forward under cover until he could look down across the broken field-stone wall to the house.
Carefully he examined the sweep of snow about the half-ruined dwelling. There were the tracks he and Dessie had made about the yard. But the smooth expanse of white between house and main road was unbroken. There had been no invaders since they had left. Thankfully, though without any lessening of his habitual apprehension, he went back to gather up the wood.
“All right?” Dessie shifted impatiently from one cold foot to the other.
“All right.”
She jerked the sled into motion and plodded on along the wall where the snow had not drifted. There was a faint gleam of light in one of the windows below. Lars must be in the kitchen. Minutes later they stamped off snow and went in.