m her mother's face that she
understood her reason, and she hastened to say, "I must go to the
village, mother. It is no use waiting any longer. I ought to have gone
yesterday. They have forgotten to send the things--or my father has
forgotten to get them," she added to herself, with a sense of pain and
shame.

"I ought to have gone yesterday, mother," repeated Sophy, "but I was
afraid of losing my way in the snow. I was foolish, I know, but I could
not help thinking of the little lad you told us about once, who never
came back."

"We must do something," said her mother; "and I am afraid it would be
impossible for me to go to the village myself. Surely the road must be
opened by this time. Is it still as cold, do you think? You must take
John with you. Two are better than one."

"No; it is not so cold, I think," said Sophy. "And, dear mother, you
are not to fret. We can go easily, and it will all come right, you'll
see." And Sophy made a great pretence of hastening the dressing of her
little brothers, that she might get their breakfast first and then hurry
away.

CHAPTER FOUR.

HELP IN THE HOUR OF NEED.

The breakfast was prepared and eaten, such as it was. Sophy made all
things neat, and kept the baby while her mother dressed herself, and
then she prepared for her walk to the village. But she was not to
struggle through the snow that day. Just as she was bidding her
good-bye, they were startled by the sound of voices quite near, and the
boys rushed out in time to see a yoke of oxen plunging through the drift
that rose like a wall before the door. The voice of Stephen Grattan
fell like music on their ears. The things were come at last, and plenty
of them. There were bags and bundles manifold, and a great round basket
of Dolly Grattan's, well known to the little Morelys as capable of
holding a great many good things, for it had been in their house before.

"I don't know as you would speak to me, if you knew all, mother," said
Stephen at last, approaching Mrs Morely, who was sitting by the fire
with her baby in her arms. "You are all alive, I see,--at least the
boys are. How is baby, and my little Sophy? Why, what ails the child?"

He might well ask; for Sophy was lying limp and white across the baby's
cot. Poor little Sophy! The reaction from those terrible fears--the
doubt that her father had forgotten them, and the fear of what might
become of them all--was too much for her, weakened