The little creature was about five, or possibly six years old, scantily clad, but neat and pretty. As her feet began to get warm before the fire, she wailed with pain, which Bert tried to stop by rubbing. "Put her hands in y'r hair, hold her feet in y'r hands--don't rub 'em," commanded Ans, who was stripping the ice from his eyelashes and from his matted beard, which lay like a shield upon his breast. "Stir up the fire; give her some hot coffee an' some feed. She hain't had anything to eat." Bert tried to do all these things at once, and could not, but managed finally to get the child a piece of bread and a cup of coffee, and to allay her fears. Ans began to recover from his horrible journey and was able to speak, though his lungs were still painful. "Ol' man," he said solemnly and tenderly, "I came jest as near stayin' in that last gully down there as a man could an' not. The snow was up to my armpits, an' let me down wherever the weeds was. I had to waller; if it hadn't be'n for her, I guess I'd 'a' give up; but I jest grit m' teeth an' pulled through. There, guess y' hadn't better let her have any more. I guess she'll go to sleep now she's fed an' warmed. Jest le' me take her now, ol' man." "No: you git rested up." "See here, it'll rest me to hold that little chap. I'm all right. My hands is frosted some, an' my ears, that's all, but my breath is gittin' back. Come on, now," he pleaded. Bert surrendered the child, who looked up into the bearded face of the rough fellow, then rested her head on his breast, and went to sleep at last. It made his heart thrill as he felt her little head against his breast. He never had held a child in his arms before. "Say, Bert, reckon I'm a purty fair picture of a fam'ly man, now, eh? Throw in a couple o' twists more o' hay--" Bert stirred up the fire. "Well, now the little one is off, what's up over to the Norsk's? Wha' d'ye bring the child for?" he asked at last. "Because she was the only livin' soul in the shanty." "What?" His face was set in horror. "Fact." "Where's the Norsk?" "I don't know. On the prairie somewhere." "An' the mother?" "She's--" Here the little one stirred slightly as he leaned forward, and Ans said, with a wink, "She's asleep." He winked significantly, and Bert understood what the sleep was. "Be a little careful what y' say--jes' now; the little rat is listenin'. Jest say relative when y' mean her--the woman, y' know." "Yes, sir," he resumed after a moment; "I was scart when I saw that house--when I knocked, an' no one stirred 'r come to the door. They wasn't a track around, an' the barn an' house was all drifted up. I pushed the door open; it was cold as a barn, an' dark. I couldn't see anythin' f'r a minute, but I heard a sound o' cryin' from the bed that made my hair stand up. I rushed over there, an' there lay the mother on the bed, with nothin' on but some kind of a night-dress, an' everythin'--dress, shawl, an' all--piled on an' around that blessed child."