tracks to the road, we concluded it was Missy's, and returned to the
other. But we had not followed it very far before we came upon the
poor mare lying upon her back in a deep runnel, in which the snow was
very soft. She had put her forefeet in it as she galloped heedlessly
along, and tumbled right over. The snow had yielded enough to let the
banks get a hold of her, and she lay helpless. Turkey and Andrew,
however, had had the foresight to bring spades with them and a rope,
and they set to work at once, my father taking a turn now and then,
and I holding the lantern, which was all but useless now in the
moonlight. It took more than an hour to get the poor thing on her legs
again, but when she was up, it was all they could do to hold her. She
was so wild with cold, and with delight at feeling her legs under her
once more, that she would have broken loose again, and galloped off as
recklessly as ever. They set me on her back, and with my father on one
side and Turkey on the other, and Andrew at her head, I rode home in
great comfort. It was another good hour before we arrived, and right
glad were we to see through the curtains of the parlour the glow of
the great fire which Kirsty had kept up for us. She burst out crying
when we made our appearance.

CHAPTER XXXIII

A Solitary Chapter

During all that winter I attended the evening school and assisted the
master. I confess, however, it was not by any means so much for the
master as to be near Elsie Duff, of whom I now thought many times an
hour. Her sweet face grew more and more dear to me. When I pointed out
an error in her work, or suggested a better mode of working, it would
flush like the heart of a white rose, and eagerly she would set
herself to rectification or improvement, her whole manner a dumb
apology for what could be a fault in no eyes but her own. It was this
sweetness that gained upon me: at length her face was almost a part of
my consciousness. I suppose my condition was what people would call
being in love with her; but I never thought of that; I only thought of
her. Nor did I ever dream of saying a word to her on the subject. I
wished nothing other than as it was. To think about her all day, so
gently that it never disturbed Euclid or Livy; to see her at night,
and get near her now and then, sitting on the same form with her as I
explained something to her on the slate or in her book; to hear her
voice, and look into her tender eyes, was all th