ild, slowly; "I was wondering where the
poor old man I saw up on the hill to-day would sleep to-night. Such a
poor, poor man, so old and sick and ragged."

"Bless the chick! What is she talking about now?"

"Some man she saw to-day when she was on the hill coasting with the
others," the mother said. "Some tramp, I suppose."

"I have not heard of any in town," said Dixon, with sudden
thoughtfulness. "It isn't the season for tramps. Oh!" he added,
carelessly, as the child continued to look in his face, "some
worthless old vagabond, I suppose, dearie. Don't fret your little
heart about him. He'll find a warm nest in somebody's hay-mow, no
doubt." But little Bab shook her head.

"I don't think he was bad," she said, softly, "only very sick and
sorry. He asked me my name, and when I told him he laughed out so
queer! And then I showed him our house, and told him maybe you'd give
him some money, and then he laughed again, and then I--I got scared
because the other girls had all run away, and I ran away, too."

Her father had listened with strange intentness. His playfulness was
extinguished, and his face looked all at once careworn and troubled.

"You're a silly little lass," he said, after a moment's silence, "and
you must not talk to strange men who ask questions. They might carry
you off, you know."

He held the child silently a little while longer, and then carried her
back to her bed; after which he returned to his seat near the fire.
His wife had already seated herself in her low chair, her face bent
above the knitting in her hands. Outside the wind howled and roared,
but in the room where these two sat all was, to the eye, calm, and
sweet, and cosey. The fire glowed, and emitted cheerful little snaps
and sparks, the clock ticked, and the knitting-needles clicked, and
through the open door the child's soft, regular breathing was
distinctly audible. Suddenly the woman stirred and looked up, to find
her husband's eyes fixed upon her. Strangely enough they faltered, and
turned away, but presently came back to hers again.

"You are very silent to-night, lassie," he said, putting out his hand
to stroke her fair girlish head. "Are you ill, or over-tired?"

She shook her head, and dropping the knitting from her hands, clasped
them over her husband's knee, and laid her cheek upon them.

"No," she said, softly, "not ill, nor tired. Only somehow I have been
thinking all day of old times and--_of him!_"

She dropped he