for a time, she crept downstairs into the kitchen.

"Oh, Nanny, let me help you with the dinner," she said pleadingly, "it's so cold upstairs."

The old woman was not a bad sort, but she was rather cross; everything had gone wrong with her that morning. First, she could not get any sticks on account of the snow, and the ones she had were damp and would not burn; then the Squire had grumbled at her for extravagance.

"Oh, get out of the way, you are more of a hindrance than a help," she answered pettishly.

Elsie went back again to her little room and looked out of the window at the pure white snow. How lovely it looked! She would just run out to see what it was like on the soft white carpet. How happy the hardy fisher-children looked, with their fresh glowing faces and sturdy limbs, as they pelted one another with the soft powdery snow!

She put on her old shawl and her apology for a hat, and stole quietly out to the enchanted land. Old Nanny saw her go, but took no notice, muttering to herself as she went on with her household duties. The fresh keen air made little Elsie feel quite gay and happy as she frisked about revelling in her new-found liberty.

"Oh, the snow! the lovely snow! I wonder who put it up in the sky? I wish I could go up to see who is making the dear little feathers. Is it the Man in the Moon, I wonder? I'd like to see him make the feathers. Perhaps if I go far enough I'll get to the end of the world, and then I'll get up into the clouds, it does not look very far," she said to herself.

On she went merrily, with her eyes eagerly fixed upon the near horizon; but the way was long, and the poor little feet grew heavy and tired. Her boots, much too large for her, and very thin, were wet through and through, but still she struggled bravely on. The snow was falling thickly and silently. The large flakes filled the air, blotting out the familiar landscape. There was everywhere nothing to be seen but snow! snow! snow!

"I wonder if this is the right way," thought Elsie, as she plodded painfully along. "Perhaps gran'f'er will be cross if I get lost."

robin

She turned round to try and retrace her steps, but the little footmarks were covered with the fast falling snow, she could not see which way she had come. For a time she wandered on wearily and aimlessly, until she took a false step and felt herself slipping, slipping. Where? Was it into the middle of the earth? or was it into Snow Land? Only Snow Land was up above, and she was going down, down, down! In vain she tried to keep her footing; she sank down into the drift. The snow came down blinding and choking her. The cruel cold snow that looked so soft and gentle and yielding. She shut her eyes to try to keep it out.

"I wonder if gran'fer will be sorry if his little girl is lost? and Nanny? and oh! my dear little Robin, who'll save him the crumbs if I have to stop down here? My dear little Robin! I wish gran'fer would come! I'm getting so sleepy!" and the poor tired child lay still with closed eyes.

Tap! tap! tap! What was that on her forehead.

Elsie opened her heavy eyes and looked around. There was her own dear little Robin flapping his wings and hovering around her. Was it a dream? Elsie rubbed her eyes. No, there he was in reality, in his warm red and brown coat.

"Oh dear Robin! fly home and tell gran'fer I'm lost in the snow!" she cried entreatingly.

Robin perched his saucy little head on one side, and looked at her with his bright twinkling eyes as though he quite understood what she said.

The snow had ceased falling, and the sky looked thick and yellow as though it were lined with cotton wool. Elsie felt cold and stiff, and her limbs ached--she felt she could not stay much longer in her snowy bed.

"Fly home, Robin, and tell gran'fer," she repeated, and Robin flew away.

Elsie sighed, and half wished she had not sent him. He was company, at any rate; she was tired of being alone. But gran'f'er would soon know, and come to fetch her home.

She tried to keep her eyes open to watch for his coming, but it was hard work, and oh! she was so tired! so tired! Would gran'fer never come? Perhaps he was so busy counting his money that he would never think of his little girl lying out there under the cruel snow!

At Castle Grim, in the old-fashioned kitchen, sat Nanny over the fire, shivering, but not with the cold, though it was cold enough.

Where could the child be? The soup was ready for the master as soon as he should come in, but the child, little Elsie, where was she? Presently a shuffling step outside was heard, and the miser came in. He was a curious looking figure, with scanty grey locks hanging over his stooping shoulders. His clothes were green with age, but well brushed and mended. He seated himself at the table, and looked round for his little grand-daughter.

"Where is Elsie?" he asked with a frown.

The old woman's voice trembled.

"She went out into the snow, and has not come back," she answered, putting her apron to her eyes; "and these old bones are not fit to go out to look for her."

The old man got up and went to the window. The dusk was beginning to come on in the short December afternoon.

"Which way did she go?" he asked at length.

"I don't know. I did not watch her go," mumbled the old woman. "I was too busy--I can't be always watching folks."

"We must track her footsteps," said the miser, getting his greatcoat. But in the grounds in front of the house the snow lay in an unbroken sheet; no signs of any footmarks--they were all covered by this time. Nanny and the miser looked at each other in consternation.

"She is lost in the snow," muttered the old woman sitting down in front of the fire, with her apron over her head, rocking herself to and fro. The miser, too, sat down, and covering his face with his hands, groaned aloud.

What was he to do? Where to go? On one side of the castle lay the sea, on the other the moor. It was like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay to search for her--and there were no tracks to follow. The old man was greatly distressed; miser though he was, he had a man's heart, and in his own way he loved his little granddaughter, though, to be sure, he loved money more--or thought he did. But the child was very dear to him--she was all that was left to the lonely old man.

The pair sat in silence for a while, plunged in thought; suddenly the miser arose.

"Light the lantern," he said briefly.

"What are you going to do with it, master?" she asked in a shrill quavering treble.

"To search for the child. Be quick."

Nanny groaned. "You'll go and get lost too," she whined. "And there'll be nobody left but