The pony began to stumble, and several times he nearly fell, for Terry found it hard to hold him up with her little frost-bitten fingers.

She worked bravely, but felt that the road was indeed downhill, and all the more difficult in its present state of slipperiness.

Still there was no house in sight, and so thick was the fog that unless the door of the farmhouse had been just at hand, it would not have been visible to her.
The road grew worse and worse to the pony's feet, and at last he made a great stumble and went crash down on his knees on some sharp stones.

Terry went over his head, but fortunately alighted sitting on the frozen grass by the roadside.
She was soon on her feet, and so was the pony, but the poor little animal was bleeding at the knees, and Terry knew that she must not mount him again.

She broke the ice on a pool and bathed his wounds with her handkerchief.