"It is a fearful change," muttered the child to herself, but still she did not fear, for she had been born in a moorland cottage, and lived all her days among the hardships of the hills.--"What will become of the poor sheep," thought she,--but still she scarcely thought of her own danger, for innocence and youth, and joy, are slow to think of ought evil befalling themselves, and thinking benignly of all living things, forget their own fear in their pity of others' sorrow.--At last, she could no longer discern a single mark on the snow, either of human steps, or of sheep track, or the foot print of a wild-fowl. Suddenly, too, she felt out of breath and exhausted,--and shedding tears for herself at last sank down in the snow. It was now that her heart began to quake for fear. She remembered stories of the shepherds lost in the snow,--of a mother and child frozen to death on that very moor,--and, in a moment she knew that she was to die. Bitterly did the poor child weep, for death was terrible to her, who, though poor, enjoyed the bright little world of youth and innocence. The skies of heaven were dearer than she knew to her,--so were the flowers of earth. She had been happy at her work--happy in her sleep--happy in the kirk on Sabbath. A thousand thoughts had the solitary child,--and in her own heart was a spring of happiness, pure and undisturbed as any fount that sparkles unseen all the year through, in some quiet nook among the pastoral hills. But now there was to be an end of all this,--she was to be frozen to death--and lie there till the thaw might come; and then her father would find her body, and carry it away to be buried in the kirk-yard. The tears were frozen on her cheeks as soon as shed--and scarcely had her little hands strength to clasp themselves together, as she thought of an overruling and merciful Lord came across her heart. Then, indeed, the fears of this religious child were calmed, and she heard without terror, the plover's wailing cry, and the deep boom of the bittern sounding in the moss. "I will repeat the Lord's prayer." And drawing her plaid more closely around her, she whispered beneath its ineffectual cover; "Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,--thy kingdom come--thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven." Had human aid been within fifty yards, it could have been of no avail--eye could not see her--ear could not hear her in that howling darkness. But that low prayer was heard in the centre of eternity--and that little sinless child was lying in the snow, beneath the all-seeing eye of God.