Mr. Parlin found it very hard to push his way through the drifts, with the storm beating on all sides, and every snow-flake pricking like a needle. He thought of Ben Penny, and was almost afraid the sick lad would perish. It seemed to make very little difference which direction he took, since one was as likely to be right as another. As he was going down Congress Street, some one touched his arm.

“Look here, sir; be you Mr. Parlin?”

Enoch Rosenberg had spent several years with a farmer in the backwoods, and did not talk very correctly. “The school-mistress says you’re round after that little girl o’ yourn.”

“Yes, yes; what do you know of her?”

“Why, I’ve come to tell you she’s safe and sound, and t’other little one too.”

“Are you sure? Is it true? Where are they? Speak quick!”

“At Mr. Harris’s—two miles off—no, considerable scant of two miles—down yonder. They’d have been as dead as door-nails, both of ’em, if I hadn’t happened to have catched up with ’em. One of ’em, she hollered out to me, and then they fell down, one top o’ the other, as near froze as ever you see.”

“But how do you know they are safe now; tell me that!”

“I took ’em to Mr. Harris’s; that’s how I know. I had to scold considerable sharp, and make believe I’se going to set a dog on ’em, afore I could bring ’em to.”

Mr. Parlin drew his hand across his eyes. He could not bear to think his tender child had been in such horrible danger.

“What is your name, my young friend?” said he, offering his hand to Enoch; “and how did you know me? Call round to my office to-morrow; I want to see you again. This is not the time or place to thank you as you deserve.”

Enoch’s black eyes glittered. He understood that Mr. Parlin meant to give him some money, and this was just what he had expected, for he remembered the liberal reward bestowed on his mother for taking care of Dotty a day or two.

“Yes, sir,” replied he, thinking, “he’ll come down with something handsome! I ain’t a mite afraid but he will. Guess I wouldn’t a’ taken this tramp for nothing!”

Mr. Parlin hastened to Mrs. Penny. He found her pacing the floor, and staring straight before her with fixed eyes.

“Good news,” said he; “the children are safe.”

Mrs. Penny screamed as if he had struck her.

“Safe,” repeated he; “they are at Mrs. Harris’s. I know the woman—one of the kindest souls living.”

Mrs. Penny screamed again, and wrung her hands. Mr. Parlin feared she was losing her reason; but very soon tears began to flow, and the weight on her brain gave way.

“If you can rest easy,” said Mr. Parlin, “I do not think it will be best to bring the children home to-day. After this great fright and exposure, they need rest.”

“O, no; don’t go for them,” cried Mrs. Penny. “I beg you won’t go for them; I can’t have my little Tate face such a storm again!”

Mr. Parlin turned to open the door; but Mrs. Penny was too excited to stop talking.

“Only think of my letting her go to school to-day! She said to me, ‘O, ma, I must go; for Dotty Dimple and I have an engagement!’ She thinks there’s nobody like Dotty Dimple!”

Mr. Parlin turned the knob, but Mrs. Penny continued.

“The child came home one night very much agitated, and wanted to know why I didn’t make her be good, like Dotty Dimple. I told her I couldn’t; she must try for herself. ‘But, ma,’ said she, ‘you ought to pray to me, and make me be good; that’s what Dotty Dimple’s mother does to her! Dotty says, if our Nancy put her to bed, she shouldn’t be any better’n me!’”

Mr. Parlin laughed.

“Our little daughter thinks very well of herself,” said he; “and that is the most discouraging thing about her. Good by, Mrs. Penny. To-morrow, as soon as the storm is over, I will go for the children.”

“Good by, sir; and send my boy back, if you find him.”

“Good by, thir,” said a little dumpling of a girl, called Tid, peeping out from behind the closet door.

“My precious Tate,” thought Mrs. Penny, earnestly; “if I ever get her home again, I will take more pains with her. I presume Nancy doesn’t hear her say her prayers half the time. She seems inclined to tell wrong stories lately; who knows but I could break up the habit, if, as Dotty Dimple says, I put her to bed myself?”

Mr. Parlin overtook Ben Penny, and helped him home. By that time he longed for shelter: but how could he rest until he had seen for himself that Dotty was safe? The Rosenberg boy had no doubt intended to tell the truth, but there might be some mistake; so the anxious father went all the way to Mr. Harris’s, and, when he arrived there, found the children fast asleep.

“Do stay and rest yourself, sir,” said Mrs. Harris. “You look as if you couldn’t walk another step.”

“Thank you,” replied Mr. Parlin; “an hour’s rest would be very welcome; but I dare not take it; it is growing late.”

The tired man set out again. By the time he reached home, he was so exhausted that he could scarcely speak.

“Why, my dear husband, what is the matter?” said Mrs. Parlin; “and where is Dotty?”

“Safe,” replied Mr. Parlin from the depths of a sofa pillow, “safe!”

“Safe?”

“Yes, at Mrs. Harris’s.”

“At Mrs. Harris’s, Edward? What is she doing there?”

“Having a good nap.”

“Sleeping at this time of day?”

“Yes; you see she got thoroughly chilled.”

“Chilled?”

“Yes; she and that Penny child lost their way.”

“Lost their way? When? Where?”

“Going from the school-house to Mrs. Penny’s.”

Prudy was excessively amused.

“Why, papa, the road isn’t any longer’n my little finger!”

“But this snow, my dear, is a great deal deeper than your finger. I fear we shall hear of sad accidents, for it will prove one of the worst storms ever known in New England.”

It was a fearful night. The wind shrieked and rattled the windows, and shook the storm-door. One would have thought a legion of wretched, starving beggars were prowling about the house, pleading to be let in. And still it was nothing but the wind.

“I wish my children were all at home,” sighed Mrs. Parlin, every time the shrieks wakened her. “I know Mrs. Harris will take good care of Dotty; but I don’t like to have my little girl away from me on such a night as this.”

At the same time Dotty Dimple was lying in a room whose walls were papered so strangely, that she thought the pictures kept her awake even in the dark. A boy pumping water for some cows—she wondered why the water didn’t freeze; and a lady “jumping the rope with a shawl.” Then the bedstead had very high posts, with a ball stuck upon every one, like a head on a pin.

“People do have such queer things in their houses that it keeps me awake,” thought Dotty, who had been asleep most of the afternoon.

“And there’s Tate, now—nothing keeps her awake. I wish she was; but I don’t dare touch her for fear she’ll have the nose-bleed.”

The wind seized the house between its teeth and shook it.

“O, my!” thought Dotty, “where are we going to? S’pose this house should blow to Europe, and my father’s house should blow to Boston! But there needn’t anybody think I can help it, for I can’t. It wasn’t running away. Miss Parker said we might; and I don’t s’pect my papa knows this minute.”

Dotty was so homesick that Mrs. Harris had not mentioned her father’s visit.

“That Solly Rosenbug, that’s called something else,—I’ve forgot his name,—he won’t remember to tell him. My father’ll have to print me in the papers. ‘My daughter Alice, with a calico wrapper on. Have you seen her? Little pockets in, and a pair of red mittens.’ Nobody has ever seen me, the snow was so thick; and when they are so scared they can’t speak a word, then I shall get there; but not go through the cellar window, though, ’cause I didn’t run away, and couldn’t help it. I was doing just right.

“How they’ll feel! And what’s the first words grandma’ll say? I know. She always says ’em after I’ve had a dreadful time, and didn’t get drowned, or die,—

“‘He gave his angels a charger of, concerning thee.’

“I don’t know what she means by an ‘angel a charger of.’ P’r’aps ’twill be Solly Rosenbug, she means; but she don’t know how he looks, or she wouldn’t call him an angel!”

It was a long night to Dotty. For the endless space of two hours she lay sad and homesick, thinking how dreary it was without her mother. In the morning the storm was past; but the wind, which had not slept a wink all night, started up as fresh as ever. When Dotty looked out of the window, there lay the world, all dead and buried, nothing to be seen but mounds of snow.

“The streets are gone,” said Dotty, “and everything else. You could ride top o’ the houses, and not know the difference. The trees look as if they were sound asleep and being rocked, with their night-caps on. Horses sleep standing up; so do trees, too.”

“My mother didn’t sleep,” said Tate. “I know she must a’ laid awake and cried. She can’t eat a speck o’ breakfast, and Nancy’ll bring her some toast in bed.”

“My mamma never eats in bed,” said Dotty; “she doesn’t think it’s proper; but she’ll look paler’n your mother does, for I’m her youngest child!”

“Did you think my mother didn’t love me as well as she did Tid?” asked Tate, in an injured tone, tracing a little rivulet with her finger-nail on the frosted pane.

“O, dear! I don’t care how much she loves you, Tate, if my father’d only come and take me home.”

“Cheer up, children,” said Mrs. Harris; “he’ll be here soon; just as soon as the men can cut a road through the drifts. Now come and eat your breakfasts, dears.”

“She heard what you said, Tate Penny! You always talk so loud!” whispered Dotty.