?'

'Well, it's i' this way, Mr. Penrose,' replied the girl. 'I've sin
th' birds pool th' daawn off their breasts to line th' nest for
their young uns. And why shouldn't th' angels do th' same for us?
Mi faither says as haa snow is th' earth's lappin', and keeps all
th' seeds warm, and mak's th' land so as it 'll groo. So I thought
happen it wur th' way God feathered aar nest for us. Dun yo' see?
It's nobbud my fancy.'

'And a beautiful fancy, too, Milly.'

And all that waning afternoon, as Mr. Penrose climbed the hills
amid the falling flakes, he thought of Milly's quaint conceit, and
looking round amid the gathering gloom, and seeing the great
stretch of snowy covering that now lay on the undulating sweeps,
he asked himself wherein lay the difference between the vision of
John the Divine when he saw the angels holding the four winds of
heaven, and Milly when she saw the angels giving of their warmth
to earth in falling flakes of snow.

As the darkness deepened, Mr. Penrose--fearless of the storm, and
at home on the wilds--made his way towards a lone farmstead known
as 'Granny Houses,' and so-called because of an old woman who
lived there, and who, by keeping a light in her window on dark
winter nights, guided the colliers to a distant pit across the
moors. She was the quaint product of the hills and of Calvinism,
but shrewd withal, and of a kind heart. Indeed, the young minister
had taken a strong liking to her, and frequently called at her
far-away home.

'Ey, Mr. Penrose, whatever's brought yo aat a neet like this?' she
cried, as the preacher stood white as a ghost in the doorway of
the farmstead. 'Come in and dry yorsel. Yo're just i' time fur
baggin (tea), and there's noan I'm as fain to see as yo'.'

'Thank you, Mrs. Halstead; I'm glad to be here. It's a grand
night.' And looking through the open doorway at the great expanse
of snow-covered moor, he said, 'What a beautiful world God's world
is--is it not?'

'I know noan so mich abaat its beauty, but I know its a fearful
cowd (cold) world to-neet. Shut that dur afore th' kitchen's
filled wi' snow. When yo're as owd as me yo'll noan be marlockin'
i' snow at this time o' neet. What's life to young uns is death to
owd uns, yo' know. But draw up to th' fire. That's reet; naa then,
doff that coite, and hev a soup o' tay. An' haa 'n yo' laft 'em
all daan at Rehoboth? Clammin', I reckon.'

'You're not far from the word, Mrs. Halstead. Many of them don't
know