Part 2

She turned round to try and retrace her steps, but the little footmarks were covered with the fast falling snow, she could not see which way she had come. For a time she wandered on wearily and aimlessly, until she took a false step and felt herself slipping, slipping. Where? Was it into the middle of the earth? or was it into Snow Land? Only Snow Land was up above, and she was going down, down, down! In vain she tried to keep her footing; she sank down into the drift. The snow came down blinding and choking her. The cruel cold snow that looked so soft and gentle and yielding. She shut her eyes to try to keep it out.

"I wonder if gran'fer will be sorry if his little girl is lost? and Nanny? and oh! my dear little Robin, who'll save him the crumbs if I have to stop down here? My dear little Robin! I wish gran'fer would come! I'm getting so sleepy!" and the poor tired child lay still with closed eyes.

Tap! tap! tap! What was that on her forehead.

Elsie opened her heavy eyes and looked around. There was her own dear little Robin flapping his wings and hovering around her. Was it a dream? Elsie rubbed her eyes. No, there he was in reality, in his warm red and brown coat.

"Oh dear Robin! fly home and tell gran'fer I'm lost in the snow!" she cried entreatingly.

Robin perched his saucy little head on one side, and looked at her with his bright twinkling eyes as though he quite understood what she said.

The snow had ceased falling, and the sky looked thick and yellow as though it were lined with cotton wool. Elsie felt cold and stiff, and her limbs ached--she felt she could not stay much longer in her snowy bed.

"Fly home, Robin, and tell gran'fer," she repeated, and Robin flew away.

Elsie sighed, and half wished she had not sent him. He was company, at any rate; she was tired of being alone. But gran'f'er would soon know, and come to fetch her home.

She tried to keep her eyes open to watch for his coming, but it was hard work, and oh! she was so tired! so tired! Would gran'fer never come? Perhaps he was so busy counting his money that he would never think of his little girl lying out there under the cruel snow!

At Castle Grim, in the old-fashioned kitchen, sat Nanny over the fire, shivering, but not with the cold, though it was cold enough.

Where could the child be? The soup was ready for the master as soon as he should come in, but the child, little Elsie, where was she? Presently a shuffling step outside was heard, and the miser came in. He was a curious looking figure, with scanty grey locks hanging over his stooping shoulders. His clothes were green with age, but well brushed and mended. He seated himself at the table, and looked round for his little grand-daughter.

"Where is Elsie?" he asked with a frown.

The old woman's voice trembled.

"She went out into the snow, and has not come back," she answered, putting her apron to her eyes; "and these old bones are not fit to go out to look for her."

The old man got up and went to the window. The dusk was beginning to come on in the short December afternoon.

"Which way did she go?" he asked at length.

"I don't know. I did not watch her go," mumbled the old woman. "I was too busy--I can't be always watching folks."

"We must track her footsteps," said the miser, getting his greatcoat. But in the grounds in front of the house the snow lay in an unbroken sheet; no signs of any footmarks--they were all covered by this time. Nanny and the miser looked at each other in consternation.

"She is lost in the snow," muttered the old woman sitting down in front of the fire, with her apron over her head, rocking herself to and fro. The miser, too, sat down, and covering his face with his hands, groaned aloud.

What was he to do? Where to go? On one side of the castle lay the sea, on the other the moor. It was like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay to search for her--and there were no tracks to follow. The old man was greatly distressed; miser though he was, he had a man's heart, and in his own way he loved his little granddaughter, though, to be sure, he loved money more--or thought he did. But the child was very dear to him--she was all that was left to the lonely old man.

The pair sat in silence for a while, plunged in thought; suddenly the miser arose.

"Light the lantern," he said briefly.

"What are you going to do with it, master?" she asked in a shrill quavering treble.

"To search for the child. Be quick."

Nanny groaned. "You'll go and get lost too," she whined. "And there'll be nobody left but 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.