soft and tempting bed turn into
ice-people, and do not wake up in the morning. So he bent his head and
tried to plough on through the drifts.

Whish! A soft white thing flapped through the snow and struck Pierre in
the face, so that he staggered and almost lost his balance. The next
moment he had caught the thing as it fell and was holding it tenderly in
his numb hands. It was a beautiful dove, white as the snow from which it
seemed to come. It had been whirled about by the storm until it had lost
strength to fly, and it now lay quite still, with closed eyes. Pierre
stroked the ruffled feathers gently and blew upon its cold body, trying
to bring it back to life.

"Poor bird!" he said softly. "You are lost in the snow, like me. I will
try to keep you warm, though I am myself a cold little body." He put the
bird under his jacket, holding it close to his heart. Presently the dove
opened its eyes and stirred feebly, giving a faint "Coo!"

"I wish I had something for you to eat, poor bird," said Pierre,
forgetting his own cold and hunger. "If I could but take you into my own
house and feed you as I used to feed the birds upon Christmas Eve! But
now I have no home myself, and I can scarcely keep you warm."

Pierre shivered and tried to move forward. But the storm seemed to grow
even fiercer, and the wind blew so keenly in his face that he could
scarcely stand. "I cannot go another step," he said, and down he sank in
the snow, which began to cover him with a downy blanket, pretending to
be a careful mother. He hugged the bird closer and began to feel afraid.
He knew that he was in great danger. "Dear Dove," he whispered, "I am
sorry that I cannot save you. We shall turn into ice-images together.
But I will keep you warm as long as I can." Then he closed his eyes, for
he was very sleepy.

In a little while something made Pierre open his eyes. At first he could
see only the whirling snow, which seemed to be everywhere. But presently
he found that some one was bending over him, with face close to his;
some one chubby and rosy and young,--a child like himself, but more
beautiful than any child whom Pierre had ever seen. He stared hard at
the face which seemed to smile at him through the snow, not minding the
cold.

"You have my dove inside your coat," said the Child, pointing. "I lost
her in the storm. Give her to me."

Pierre held his coat the closer. "She was cold," he answered. "She was
dying in the snow. I am trying t