hing 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."

"Then," said Countess with a smile, "play the widow of Zarephath. Give
me thy `little cake,' and when the light dawns, you shall have a new
cruse and barrel in reward."

"Nay, we look for no reward," answered Christian heartily. "I am only
grieved that it should be so little. You are spent with your journey."

"I am most spent with the weight. I had to carry the child, and this,"
she replied, touching a large square parcel, tied in a silk handkerchief
round her waist. "It is the child's property--all he has in the world.
May the Blessed One be praised that I have saved them both!"

"`To them that have no