That was commendable, and Miss Grey was glad to help him; but though a man in size, he had not outgrown the boy in him, and he sometimes gave her a great deal of trouble by putting the younger ones up to mischief or teasing them past endurance.
With Harry, Miss Grey dreaded the most trouble, but real danger brought out his manly side and he at once ranged himself on her side to stand by her and help.
On her request, he went to the passageway where wood was kept and returned with a small armful and a white face. He whispered to Miss Grey: “This is the last stick!”
A new horror was thus added to the situation, but Miss Grey assumed a confidence she by no means felt. “Then we must burn up the wood-box,” she said calmly.
“I will split it up,” said Harry; “I know where the axe is kept.”
This was some relief. Permission was granted, and in a few minutes the vigorous blows of the axe were heard, and soon he returned with a glowing face and a big armful of wood. Miss Grey called for quiet and began to tell her story.
Never was story-telling so hard; she could not collect her thoughts; she could not think of a single thing that would interest that frightened crowd. The blizzard—the horror of it—the dread of what it might bring to these children under her charge—then the terrors of hunger and cold, and panic of fear, which seemed impossible to prevent, almost deprived her of her reason. She felt a strong impulse to run away, to fling herself into the very thick of the storm and perish.
Then a glance at the intelligent and fearless face of Harry gave her new courage. “Harry,” she said, in a low tone, “you are the oldest here—you must help me. Can’t you tell a story while I try to think?”
“I don’t know,” hesitated Harry.
“Do think!” she said earnestly; “these children will work themselves into a panic, and then how can we manage them!”