where the children stood was the queerest little house that they had
ever seen. It was long and very low, hardly more than one story high,
and was painted blue and white in stripes running lengthwise. In the
middle was a little front door with a window on either side of it and
three square blue and white striped steps leading up to it. From the
chimney a trail of thick white smoke poured out. As the three children
stood staring at the house, Peter cried out: "It's snowing!"

Sure enough the air was full of thick white flakes.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear!" Ann wailed, "what shall we do now? We can't go
back in the cave because the Warming-pan might catch us, and if we
stay here Peter will catch his death of cold out in the snow in his
night drawers--and so will we all. Oh, what _would_ mother say!"

"But we are not out in the snow, Ann," began Rudolf in his arguing
voice. "We are _in_ in the snow."

"And it is not wet," added Peter who was trying to roll a snowball out
of the white flakes that were piling themselves on the ground with
amazing quickness.

"I don't care," said Ann. "I know mother wouldn't like us to be in in
it or out in it. I'm going to knock at the door of that house this
minute and ask if they won't let us stay there till the storm's over."

"All right," said Rudolf, "only I hope the people who live there don't
happen to be any relation of the Warming-pan."

It was a dreadful thought. The three children looked at the house and