“Poor bird!” he said softly.  “You are lost in the snow, like me.  I will try to keep you warm, though I am myself a cold little body.”  He put the bird under his jacket, holding it close to his heart.  Presently the dove opened its eyes and stirred feebly, giving a faint “Coo!”

“I wish I had something for you to eat, poor bird,” said Pierre, forgetting his own cold and hunger.  “If I could but take you into my own house and feed you as I used to feed the birds upon Christmas Eve!  But now I have no home myself, and I can scarcely keep you warm.”

Pierre shivered and tried to move forward.  But the storm seemed to grow even fiercer, and the wind blew so keenly in his face that he could scarcely stand.  “I cannot go another step,” he said, and down he sank in the snow, which began to cover him with a downy blanket, pretending to be a careful mother.  He hugged the bird closer and began to feel afraid.  He knew that he was in great danger.  “Dear Dove,” he whispered, “I am sorry that I cannot save you.  We shall turn into ice-images together.  But I will keep you warm as long as I can.”  Then he closed his eyes, for he was very sleepy.

In a little while something made Pierre open his eyes.  At first he could see only the whirling snow, which seemed to be everywhere.  But presently he found that some one was bending over him, with face close to his; some one chubby and rosy and young,—­a child like himself, but more beautiful than any child whom Pierre had ever seen.  He stared hard at the face which seemed to smile at him through the snow, not minding the cold.

“You have my dove inside your coat,” said the Child, pointing.  “I lost her in the storm.  Give her to me.”

Pierre held his coat the closer.  “She was cold,” he answered.  “She was dying in the snow.  I am trying to keep her warm.”

“But she is warm when she is with me, though I have no coat to wrap her in,” said the Child.  And, indeed, he was clad only in a little shirt, with his rosy legs quite bare.  Yet he looked not cold.  A brightness glowed about him, and his breath seemed to warm the air.  Pierre saw that, though it was still snowing beyond them, there were no whirling flakes between him and the Child.

The little Stranger held out his hand once more.  “Please give me the dove,” he begged.  “I must hasten on my way to the village yonder.  The dove strayed from my bosom and was lost.  You found her here, far from the road.  Thank you, little boy.  Are you often so kind to poor lost birds!”

“Why, they are the Lord’s own birds!” cried little Pierre.  “How should one not be kind and love them dearly?  On the Lord’s birthday eve, too!  It is little that I could do for this one,—­I who have saved and fed so many on other Christmas Eves.  Alas, I wish I was back in those good old days of the wheat-sheaf and the full pan of milk and the bright warm fire!” Pierre’s eyes filled with tears.