“There was only one stick of wood left, and that was a big one. Tot couldn’t move it. Pussy got on the table, and lapped up all the milk in the pan. Then Tot cried hard, and said, ‘Mamma, come! oh do come!’ over and over. She put all the clothes there were on the bed. When the baby cried, she patted him with her little hand, and cried too. When morning came, they were both still. I could see them through the window. Away off on the prairie I heard the slow jingle of a bell.
“‘Hurry! hurry!’ I roared, ‘or you’ll be too late.’ Then I scooped up the snow, and blew open a path. The sleigh got nearer. The woman couldn’t wait. She held out her arms to the cottage. At last she jumped into the snow (it was up to her waist), and floundered to the door. She beat upon it, threw it open, and cried out, ‘Mary! baby! O my baby!’
“They lay in the bed; but no little voices answered. The mother gave a loud scream. ‘Oh, they are dead!’ she shrieked, and flung herself over them.
“The men ran in. There were four of them. They built a fire and warmed blankets, and put hot milk into the mouths of the little ones.
“‘This little fellow isn’t dead,’ said one of them. He wasn’t. Pretty soon he opened his eyes, and when he saw his mother he began to cry. Tot had wrapped him up so warm that the cold didn’t kill him,—only made him dull.
“It took longer to bring her round, but at last they did. And the first thing she said was, ‘Mamie didn’t mean to spill the milk.’
“I declare,” said March with a frog in his throat, “I never did see the beat of that child.”
“And is that the end?” asked Thekla, who had been quietly crying for some time past over little Tot’s troubles.
“Of course it’s the end,” replied March. “What did you expect? And a very nice story it is, though I say it as shouldn’t.
“And now I’m off,” shouted he, and made a rush for the door.