She was still crouching in front of the seat, with her pale face resting against the cushions. It was a very white little hand that was held out in the moonlight to meet his. He took it, and did not let it go. “Florence!” He felt the little hand flutter in his own, but still he did not let it go. Half turning, he drew the torn robe about her, his hand lingering on every fold. “Florence, may I try to keep you from cold and darkness and death so long as I live?” Ah, how quick his ears were to catch that wee shadow of a whisper! No one else could have heard it. As he gathered her white face, brown hair, little hand, fur robe, and all in his own strong arms for a moment, “That one word is my Christmas song,” he said softly. “Little princess, shall we go?” And he took his post at the horse’s head.
It was a wonderful ride back, over the gleaming road, with that tall, silent figure walking before. As they turned aside into the little open space in front of the gray old house, and halted once more by the door-stone, he came quickly to her side and held out his arms as he had a year ago. Only this time he said simply, with a great gladness in his voice, “Come, Florence; we have reached home!”
