’Nonsense!  Running away from ignorance, eh?  What would you say if I ran away from disease?’

‘Canst thou minister to a mind diseased?’ was Mr. Penrose’s sharp retort.

‘No, I cannot.  But you can, and it’s your duty to do so.’

’You’re mistaken, doctor.  I cannot go to the root of the moral disease of Rehoboth.  If it were drink, or profligacy, or greed, I might; but self-righteousness beat Jesus, and no wonder it beats me.’

Taking Mr. Penrose by the arm, Dr. Hale said: 

’You see that falling snow.  Why does it disappear as soon as it touches earth?’

’Because the earth is higher in temperature than the snow, and therefore melts it,’ replied the young man, wondering at the sudden change in the conversation.

’And if it keeps on falling for another hour, why will it cease to disappear?  Why will it remain?’ continued the doctor.

’Because its constant falling will so cool the earth that the earth will no longer melt it,’ said Mr. Penrose, growing impatient with his examination in the rudiments of science.

’Well said, my friend.  And therein lies a parable.  You think your teaching falls to disappear.  No; it falls to prepare.  You must continue to let it fall, and finally it will remain, and lodge itself in the minds of your people.  There, now, I have given you one of the treasures of the snow.  But here’s old Moses.  Good-morning, Mr. Fletcher; busy as usual?’

‘Yi, doctor, aw’m findin’ these clamming fowk a bit o’ brass.’

‘How’s that, Moses?’ asked the minister.

‘Why, yo’ know as weel as aw do, Mr. Penrose.  Sin’ I yerd yo’ talk abaat Him as gies liberally, I thought aw’d do a bit on mi own accaant.’

‘There, now,’ said Dr. Hale, ’the snow is beginning to stay, is it not?’

As the doctor and Moses said ‘Good-day,’ the pastor continued his walk in a brooding mood, scarce lifting his head from the ground, on which the flakes were falling more thickly and beginning to remain.  Lost in thought, and continuing his way towards the end of the village, he was startled by a tapping at the window of Abraham Lord’s cottage, and, looking up, he saw Milly’s beckoning hand.

Passing up the garden-path and entering the kitchen, he bade the girl a good-afternoon, and asked her if she were waiting for the ‘angel een.’

‘Nay,’ said Milly; ‘I’m baan to be content wi’ th’ daawn (down) off their wings to-day.’

‘So you call the snow “angels’ down,” do you?’

‘Ey, Mr. Penrose,’ cried her mother.  ‘Hoo’s names for everythin’ yo’ can think on.  Hoo seed a great sunbeam on a bank of white claads t’ other day, and hoo said hoo thought it were God Hissel’, because th’ owd Book said as He made th’ clouds His chariot.’

‘But why do you call the snow “angels’ down,” Milly?’

‘Well, it’s i’ this way, Mr. Penrose,’ replied the girl.  ’I’ve sin th’ birds pool th’ daawn off their breasts to line th’ nest for their young uns.  And why shouldn’t th’ angels do th’ same for us?  Mi faither says as haa snow is th’ earth’s lappin’, and keeps all th’ seeds warm, and mak’s th’ land so as it ’ll groo.  So I thought happen it wur th’ way God feathered aar nest for us.  Dun yo’ see?  It’s nobbud my fancy.’