me."

Tap, tap, tap, at the window pane.

"What's that?" asked the old man sharply.

Nanny hobbled to the window and looked out; there was nobody.

Tap, tap, tap again at the window. The miser himself went this time and opened it.

In flew a robin, hopping about with his head on one side, and his keen twinkling eyes fixed upon the miser.

"Bless me! It's a robin! What does it want? Crumbs? Can't afford to keep birds," said the old man gruffly.

Robin flew to the window, and then turned as if to say, "Follow me."

The old woman watched it curiously.

"Birds are queer creatures; you would almost say it knew where the child was," she said.

"Eh! What?" asked the old man sharply, looking more attentively at the bird.

Robin gave a little chirp, tapped at the window with its bill, and then turned again as if to say "Why don't you come?"

The miser brightened up.

"Dear me! I really think you are right," he said, again taking up the lantern.

Robin flew out, stopping every now and then to see if the miser was following him. On, on they went a weary way. The moon struggled hard to pierce through the thick clouds, and shed a pale silvery light around to guide them on their way.

At last, with a succession of little chirps, Robin stopped before something that looked like a dark speck. The miser followed cautiously, for he well knew the treacherous moors. He stood still while Robin scraped away the snow from her face with his little bill, and there lay poor little Elsie, fast asleep, nearly buried in the snow. Gran'f'er very carefully lifted her out of the drift, and wrapping her in his great coat, wended his way home with a great joy in his heart, Robin hovering around all the way.

Old Nanny was sitting by the dying embers with her apron over her head, rocking herself backwards and forwards, and crooning a doleful dirge; but she sprang up joyfully when the old man entered with the child in his arms.

"Make up the fire," were the first words he said. Nanny put on a small stick.

"A good roaring fire," added the old man. Nanny could hardly believe her ears, but she cautiously put on another stick.

The old man carefully laid Elsie down on the one arm-chair the room possessed.

"More, put on more, pile it up the chimney, let us have a bright warm fire to bring her back to life," he said, rubbing his hands. Nanny nearly dropped with surprise. Never, never before during the fifty odd years that she had lived at Castle Grim had such an order been given. In a few minutes a bright cheerful fire was blazing on the hearth, and the kettle singing lustily.

Restoratives were applied to the little white-faced child, and she was well rubbed and wrapped in blankets. Soon she opened her eyes. The first thing they lit upon was the robin, who had followed them in and was hopping about with his head on one side, looking very proud and clever indeed, as he had a right to be, for was it not he who had found out where Elsie lay buried in the snow, and had brought gran'f'er to look for her?

"Oh, Robin! dear Robin!" cried the child in a weak voice. "Dear gran'f'er, it was Robin who came to tell you where I was. I sent him, you know."

Gran'f'er, who had been sitting watching the pair, said suddenly, with an air of great resolution--no one knew how much it cost him to say it--"Robin is to have some crumbs every day. I am very poor, and it will nearly ruin me, but he shall have them."

Elsie's eyes sparkled. "Oh gran'f'er! My own dear little Robin! Do you really mean it?" she asked, clapping her weak little hands.

"Yes," said the old man firmly. "He shall have them."

"Dear little Robin, do you hear what gran'fer says?" cried Elsie joyfully.

Robin looked very knowing indeed, as if he understood all about it, and with a jerk of his perky little head, as much as to say, "Good-bye, I must be off to my family, or else they'll think I'm lost in the snow too." Off he flew.

Who says birds have no sense? Not Elsie certainly, nor yet gran'fer, for he thinks Elsie's robin the most wonderful bird that ever lived.

Elsie is all right again now; and, indeed, she is not at all sorry she was lost in the snow that day, for it has shown her how much gran'fer loves her. And gran'fer--you would not know him--he has quite turned over a new leaf, and is a miser no more. He now wears a good suit that is not more than twenty years old, and has become quite liberal too, for he no longer counts the sticks, nor the peas that are put into the soup. He has kept his word about the crumbs; every morning a handful is thrown out, which Robin, with his head very much on one side, and accompanied by his family and a select circle of friends, picks up with great relish, doing the honours in his best style. And not only that, but--believe it or not as you will, it is certainly true--every Christmas a sheaf of corn is nailed to the barn door for the birds, more particularly for the robins, though all are welcome; and you never in your life heard such a chirping and chattering as there is when this interesting ceremony takes place. The birds come from far and near, the fathers, the mothers, the sisters, the cousins, and the aunts, to join in the feast; and gran'f'er, and Elsie, and old Nanny come out to watch them eat their Christmas dinner.