"Nay, I have been wide awake this hour gone. I am sure some one spoke." "I think it's fancy, Christian. However--" "There's no harm in making sure." "There's the harm of letting in a lot of snow," said David, not suiting the action to the word, for he had risen and was pulling on his hose. They required careful pulling, as they were so nearly in pieces that very little rough handling would have damaged them past repair. He was fastening the last clasp when the voice spoke again. It was nearer now, close at the door, and it was low and trembling, as if the applicant had hard work to speak at all. "For the love of the Crucified," it said, "take in a Christian child!" David's response was to open the door instantly. Something at once staggered in, and sank down on the bench:--something which looked at first sight more like a statue of white marble than a human being, so thick lay the snow over the wrappers which enfolded it. But when David had succeeded in unfolding the wrappers, and brushing off the snow, they discovered that their visitor was a woman, and that in her arms a child lay clasped, either dead or sleeping. The moment that Christian perceived so much as this, she hastily rose, throwing her poor mantle over her, and drew near to the stranger. "Poor soul, you're heartily welcome," she said, "whoever you are. We have little beside a roof to offer you, for we have scarcely food or raiment ourselves, nor money to buy either; but such as we have we will give you with all our hearts." "May the Blessed bless you!" was the faint answer. "Don't you know me, Ruth?" "Know you!" Christian studied the face of her unexpected guest. "Nay, I do almost believe--Countess! Is it you?" "Ay." "Whatever has brought you to this? The richest Jewess in Reading! Have you, too, become a Christian like us?" Countess did not give a direct answer to that direct question. "I am not poor now," she said. "I can find you money for food for us all, if you will suffer me to stay here till the storm has abated, and the roads can be travelled again." "That won't be this s'ennight," interjected David. "But how--what?" queried Christian helplessly. "This brought me," said Countess, touching the child. "I was under vow to save him. And--well, I could not do it otherwise." "Is he alive?" asked Christian pityingly. "Yes, only very fast asleep. Lay him down with your little ones, and wrap this coverlet over them all, which has sheltered us in our journey." It was a down coverlet of rich damask silk. Christian's fingers touched it as with a feeling of strangeness, and yet familiarity--as a handling of something long unfelt, but well-known years ago. "I have nothing to offer you save a crust of barley bread," she said hesitatingly. "I am sorry for it, but it is really all I have."