uld judge that it might be. He was
out of the woods now: there were only a few straggling pines rooted here
and there in a mass of loose-lying rock and slate. So much he could tell
by the light of the lantern, and the lambs, by the bleating, seemed
still above him.

It does not perhaps seem very hard labor to hunt about by a dusky light
upon a desolate mountain-side, but when the snow is falling fast, when
the light is only a small circle, wavering yellowish on the white, when
around is a wilderness of loose stones and yawning clefts, when the air
is ice and the hour is past midnight, the task is not a light one for a
man; and Findelkind was a child, like that Findelkind that was in
heaven.

Long, very long, was his search: he grew hot and forgot all fear, except
a spasm of terror lest his light should burn low and die out. The
bleating had quite ceased now, and there was not even a sigh to guide
him; but he knew that near him the lambs must be, and he did not waver
nor despair.

He did not pray--praying in the morning had been no use--but he trusted
in God, and he labored hard, toiling to and fro, seeking in every nook
and behind each stone, and straining every muscle and nerve, till the
sweat rolled in a briny dew off his forehead and his curls dripped with
wet. At last, with a scream of joy, he touched some soft, close wool
that gleamed white as the white snow. He knelt down on the ground and
peered behind the stone by the full light of his lantern: there lay the
little lambs--two little brothers, twin brothers, huddled close
together, asleep. Asleep? He was sure they were asleep, for they were so
silent and still.

He bowed over them and kissed them, and laughed and cried, and kissed
them again. Then a sudden horror smote him: they were so very still.
There they lay, cuddled close, one on another, one little white head on
each little white body, drawn closer than ever together to try and get
warm. He called to them; he touched them; then he caught them up in his
arms, and kissed them again and again and again. Alas! they were frozen
and dead. Never again would they leap in the long green grass, and frisk
with one another, and lie happy by Katte's side: they had died calling
for their mother, and in the long, cold, cruel night only Death had
answered.

Findelkind did not weep nor scream nor tremble: his heart seemed frozen,
like the dead lambs. It was he who had killed them. He rose up and
gathered them in his