CHAPTER II.

It is night, and the wind is sighing itself away. The snow has ceased to
fall, and the moon looks down upon the hills in their spotless covering,
shedding her soft, mild light upon all. The little cottage on the hill
side would be imperceptible, were it not for the light that streams
through the window and the open door. The church clock has just struck
eight, and for nearly an hour a woman has stood looking towards the
town, her anxiety increasing every moment. She listens to the sound of
feet on the crisp snow--they come nearer--they are opposite the turn
that leads to the cottage: but they pass on. Again and again she
listens:--once or twice she fancies she sees two children in the
distance--but they come not. Passersby become less frequent; again the
church clock chimes, and all is still. Her husband and her babe are
asleep. Quickly putting on her bonnet and shawl, she runs to her nearest
rleighbour to ask if she will sit with them until she returns, for she
must go and learn how it is that her children have not come home. She
fears no denial, and she meets with none; as soon as she has stated her
case, the good woman replies, "Sit wi' 'em lass! aw'm sure aw will! an'
thee," she said, turning to her husband, "put on thi hat an' coit an'
goa wi' her."

"O, they're nobbut laikin at snowball, or else slurrin a bit," he
said;--at the same time he put on his hat and coat, and showed as
much alacrity to join in the search as the mother herself.

Owd Becca thrust into her capacious pocket a tea cake and two eggs, and
taking the teapot into which she put a good supply of tea, she prepared