"Yes, you do," said the same voice, and again the cold breath seemed to go through Sandy and amongst his hair, so that it lifted his hat, already half off, and it fell to the ground. "N-n-no, I don't," cried Sandy, trying to start off in a run, but he stopped short, for just in front of him stood a bright, glittering, white figure, apparently made of snow, only that it had jolly rosy cheeks, and a pair of the keenest eyes ever seen. "Yes, you do, Sandy Brown," said the same voice, "and so don't contradict. Bring him along." In a moment, before he could turn himself, there came a rushing sound like when the wintry breeze plunges into a heap of leaves, and whirls and rustles them away, when Sandy felt himself turned in a moment as it were to ice, and then rising higher and higher as he was borne round and round for some distance; when in the midst of myriads of tiny, glittering, snow-like figures, he was carried all at once right over the church; while like a beam of light the figures swept on after him as now rising, now falling, then circling, he was at last wafted round and round the old church, till he was placed upon the tower top, and like a swarm of bees in summer, the tiny figures came clustering and humming round him till they were all settled. "Let me go home, please," cried Sandy, as soon as he could speak, but before the last word was well said, the first figure he had seen clapped its hand upon his mouth, when the tailor's jaw seemed to freeze stiff, so that he could not move his jaw. "How dare you?" cried the spirit angrily. "Dare I what?" Sandy said with his eyes. "Profane good words," cried the spirit, in answer. "How dare you talk about home, when you have murdered it, and cast the guardian spirit out? Freeze him. But there, stop a bit." Hundreds of the little fellows round had been about to make a dash at Sandy, but they fell back once more, and the tailor sat immoveable. "There, look there," said the cold voice; "that's what you have spoilt." And Sandy began to weep bitterly, so that his tears froze and fell in little hard pellets of ice on to the snow before him, for he was looking upon the happy little home he had once had before he took to drinking, and watching in the humble but comfortable spot the busy wife preparing for the next day's Christmas feast, while he, busy and active, was finishing some work to take back. "Now, look," cried the cold voice, and in an instant the scene had changed from light to darkness, for he could see his own dissipated, ragged self standing in the open door of his cottage, with the moonlight casting his shadow across the figure of his wife, lying cold and pale, with her child clasped to her breast. The black shadow--his shadow--the gloomy shade of her life cast upon her; and in speechless agony Sandy tried to shriek, for it seemed that she was dead--that they were dead, frozen in the bitter night while waiting for him.