The weather meanwhile had been changing for the worse; snow was now falling thickly, and the old woman had no umbrella. She staggered along, beaten and battered by the great tempest of wind and snow. At first she stepped on bravely enough, but by and by her steps grew feeble. The snow blinded her eyes and took away her breath, it trickled in little pools down into her neck, and seemed to find out all the weak parts of her dress. Her thin black shawl was covered with snow; her bonnet was no longer black, but white. Her heart began to beat at first too loudly, then feebly; she tottered forward, stumbling as one in a dream. She was cold, chilled through and through; bitterly, bitterly cold. Suddenly, without knowing it, she put her foot on a piece of orange-peel; she slipped, and the next moment lay prone in the soft snow. Her fall took away her last remnant of strength; try as she would, she found she could not rise. She raised her voice to call for assistance, and presently a stout laboring man came up and bent over the little prostrate woman. "Let me help you to get up, ma'am," he said politely. He caught hold of her swollen right hand. The sudden pain forced a sharp scream from her lips. "Not that hand, please, sir; the other," she said. She put out her left hand. "Nay, I'll lift you altogether," he said. "Why, you are no weight at all. Are you badly hurt, ma'am?" "No, no, it's nothin'," said Grannie, panting, and breathing with difficulty. "And where shall I take you to? You can't walk--you are not to attempt it. Is your home anywhere near here, ma'am?" In spite of all her pain and weakness, a flush of shame came into the old cheeks. "It is nigh here, very nigh," said Grannie, "but it aint my home; it's Beverley workhouse, please, sir." "All right," said the man. He did not notice Grannie's shame. The next moment he had pulled the bell at the dreary gates, and Grannie was taken in. She was conveyed straight up to the infirmary. CHAPTER XV.