I was fearfully cold before I got there. The snow was in my slippers and
down my neck and among the thickening masses of my hair. At one moment I
came upon some sheep and lambs that were sheltering under a hedge, and
they bleated in the silence of the night.

But at last I saw the warm red windows of the doctor's cottage, and
coming to the wicket gate, I pushed it open though it was clogged with
snow, and stepped up to the porch. My teeth were now chattering with
cold, but as well as I could I began to sing, and in my thin and creachy
voice I had got as far as--

"_Ch'ist was born in Bef-lem,
Ch'ist was born in Bef-lem,
Ch'ist was born in Bef-lem,
An' in a manger laid_. . . ."

when I heard a rumbling noise inside the house.

Immediately afterwards the door was opened upon me, and a woman whom I
knew to be the doctor's wife looked down into my face with an expression
of bewilderment, and then cried:

"Goodness gracious me, doctor--if it isn't little Mary O'Neill, God
bless her!"

"Bring her in at once, then," said the voice of Doctor Conrad from
within, and at the next moment I found myself in a sort of
kitchen-parlour which was warm with a glowing turf fire that had a
kettle singing over it, and cosy and bright with a ragwork hearth-rug, a
dresser full of blue pottery and a sofa settle covered with red cloth.