it was so ghastly pale, that
the boy, quite startled, jumped off his pony.

'Why, old chap, what is it? Have you got knit up with cold, sitting
here?'

'Yes, I suppose so,' said Paul; but his very voice shivered, his teeth
chattered, and his knees knocked together with the chill. 'The pains run
about me,' he added; but he spoke as if he hardly knew what he was doing
or saying.

'You must come home with me, and Mother will give you something hot,'
said Harold. 'Come, you'll catch your death if you don't. You shall
ride home.'

He pulled Paul from his seat with some difficulty, and was further
alarmed when he found that the poor fellow reeled and could hardly stand;
but he was somewhat roused, and knew better what he was about. Harold
tried to put him on the pony, but this could not be managed: he could not
help himself enough, Peggy always swerved aside, nor was Harold strong
enough to lift him up.

The only thing to be done was for Harold to mount, and Paul to lean
against the saddle, while the pony walked. When they had to separate at
the ford, poor Paul's walk across the bridge was so feeble and
staggering, that Harold feared every moment that he would fall where the
rail was broken away, but was right glad to put his arm on his shoulder
again to help to hold him up. The moving brought a little more life back
to the poor boy's limbs, and he walked a little better, and managed to
tell Harold how he had felt too miserable to speak to any one after the
rating the farmer had given him, and how he had set out on the tramp for
more work, though with hope so nearly dead in his heart, that he only
wished he could sit down and die. He had walked out of the village
before people were about, so as not to be noticed, and then had found
himself so weak and weary that he could not get on without food, and had
sat down by the hedge to eat the bit of bread he had with him. Then he
had taken the first lonely-looking way he saw, without knowing that it
was one of Harold's daily rides, and was slowly dragging himself up the
hill from the ford when the well-known voice, shouting for help, had
suddenly called him back, and filled him with spirit and speed that were
far enough off now, poor fellow!

That was a terrible mile and a half--Harold sometimes thought it would
never be over, or that Paul would drop down, and he would have to gallop
off for help; but Paul was not one to give in, and somehow they got back
at last,