His mother helped him draw on his overcoat, and then, with trembling fingers, she wound a shawl about his hectic cheeks.
“You go down by the Back Cove, and I’ll drive to Munjoy,” said Mr. Parlin, hoarsely.
But first he had to go to the school-house for Susy and Prudy. He would have let them wait, but feared their mother would be anxious. He hurried them home with scarcely a word. They ran into the house very merrily, just as he had meant they should do; and when their mother cried out,—
“Ah, my little snow-images, where’s Dotty?” they said, gayly,—
“O, she’s gone to Tate Penny’s; father went for her; it’s something about the nose-bleed.”
Mrs. Parlin did not think twice of the matter. She had as much as she could do to shake the children’s clothes, and listen to their lively prattle about the snow-storm.
“Was there ever anything like it when you were a little girl?” said one. “And can there be a flood of snow? The rainbow isn’t any sign, is it, only about the rain?” said another.
“It appears to me,” remarked Mrs. Parlin, looking at the clock, “your papa is gone a long while. I thought Mrs. Penny lived very near?”
“So she does,” answered Prudy. “I’m afraid Tate is sick.”