“Come, this won’t do!” exclaims the traveller in a tone of no small surprise and concern. “I say, young sir, have you forgotten that this is December, and not exactly the season for enjoying life in gypsy fashion?”
The boy’s eyes open dreamily and scan the keen brown moustached face which is bending over him, but he neither moves nor makes any response. The traveller lays a hand on his shoulder and speaks again, somewhat more peremptorily.
“I say, young one, get up—do you hear? Do you want to get frozen to death?”
If there is some roughness in the tone, there is none in the manner and gesture with which dropping on one knee in the snow, the traveller proceeds to chafe the cold nerveless hand, which, in answer to this appeal, the boy slowly tries to lift. He points to his left foot which is stretched out in an uncomfortable twisted attitude, and his new friend is not long in discovering that a sprained ankle is the cause of the mischief.
A serviceable many-bladed knife is quickly produced, and the boot dexterously slit open, to the instant relief of the injured limb, which is much swollen.
The boy gives a gasp of satisfaction, and murmurs “Thank you,” as he makes a still unsuccessful effort to scramble to his feet.
“Take care—let me give you a hand. Poor little chap—” as the patient collapses again, “here, have a pull at this,” taking a restorative from a medicine case in an inner pocket; “that’s right—you’ll be able to tell me all about it presently. Nettle, little lass, it’s a pity you can’t speak, isn’t it?”
IT IS SNOWING HEAVILY AS ALICE TRIPS BACK TO THE CHURCH.