“Tate has got the nose-bleed, Miss Parker,” said Dotty, “both sides of her nose, and I was the one that did it, but ’twas untennyshal. Mayn’t I take her home before she bleeds the house all up? She’s got it real hard, both sides, Miss Parker.”
The earnest look in Dotty’s eyes was not to be resisted. Miss Parker forgot the weather, and consented. She knew Tate lived very near the school-house; but she did not reflect that in this whizzing storm it was almost unsafe for such young children to walk even a short distance.
The little girls hurried on their cloaks and hoods, and started out, Miss Parker going into the entry with them, and giving Tate her own handkerchief, saying,—
“Use snow, my dear. I wouldn’t come back to school, for you won’t feel like it. Dotty, perhaps you’d better not go; it’s a terrible storm, and Tate can do as well alone.”
But Dotty insisted, and Miss Parker said no more. If she had only opened the outside door she would have seen at once what an imprudent thing she was allowing the children to do; but instead of opening the door, she turned and entered the school-room.
Dotty and Tate passed out into the storm. The wind shrieked at them like some wild animal, and rushed upon them as if it were seeking its prey.
“O, O, Tate Penny,” said Dotty catching her breath, “it’s going to blow us to which ways!”
“There’s snow enough, and more too; but I can’t—catch it,” gasped Tate, “to stop my—nose with—for the wind won’t let me—keep still a—mi—mi—minute.”
“Why, why! here I am, blowed down,” cried Dotty; and next moment Tate blew down too.
“Let’s go back to school,” said she, with a tremulous sigh.