‘And a beautiful fancy, too, Milly.’

And all that waning afternoon, as Mr. Penrose climbed the hills amid the falling flakes, he thought of Milly’s quaint conceit, and looking round amid the gathering gloom, and seeing the great stretch of snowy covering that now lay on the undulating sweeps, he asked himself wherein lay the difference between the vision of John the Divine when he saw the angels holding the four winds of heaven, and Milly when she saw the angels giving of their warmth to earth in falling flakes of snow.

As the darkness deepened, Mr. Penrose—­fearless of the storm, and at home on the wilds—­made his way towards a lone farmstead known as ‘Granny Houses,’ and so-called because of an old woman who lived there, and who, by keeping a light in her window on dark winter nights, guided the colliers to a distant pit across the moors.  She was the quaint product of the hills and of Calvinism, but shrewd withal, and of a kind heart.  Indeed, the young minister had taken a strong liking to her, and frequently called at her far-away home.

‘Ey, Mr. Penrose, whatever’s brought yo aat a neet like this?’ she cried, as the preacher stood white as a ghost in the doorway of the farmstead.  ‘Come in and dry yorsel.  Yo’re just i’ time fur baggin (tea), and there’s noan I’m as fain to see as yo’.’

’Thank you, Mrs. Halstead; I’m glad to be here.  It’s a grand night.’  And looking through the open doorway at the great expanse of snow-covered moor, he said, ’What a beautiful world God’s world is—­is it not?’

’I know noan so mich abaat its beauty, but I know its a fearful cowd (cold) world to-neet.  Shut that dur afore th’ kitchen’s filled wi’ snow.  When yo’re as owd as me yo’ll noan be marlockin’ i’ snow at this time o’ neet.  What’s life to young uns is death to owd uns, yo’ know.  But draw up to th’ fire.  That’s reet; naa then, doff that coite, and hev a soup o’ tay.  An’ haa ‘n yo’ laft ’em all daan at Rehoboth?  Clammin’, I reckon.’

’You’re not far from the word, Mrs. Halstead.  Many of them don’t know where to-morrow’s food and to-morrow’s fire is coming from.’

’Nowe, I dare say.  Bud if they’d no more sense nor to spend their brass in th’ summer, what can they expect?  There’s some fo’k think they can eyt their cake and hev it.  But th’ Almeety doesn’t bake bread o’ that mak’.  He helps them as helps theirsels.  He gay’ five to th’ chap as bed five, and him as bed nobbud one, and did naught wi’ it—­why, He tuk it fro’ him, didn’t He?  I’ll tell yo’ what it is, Mr. Penrose, there’s a deal o’ worldly wisdom i’ providence.  Naa come, isn’t there?’

Mr. Penrose laughed.

‘Theer’s that Oliver o’ Deaf Martha’s.  Naa, I lay aught he’s noan so mich, wi’ his dog-feightin’ and poachin’.  His missis wur up here t’other day axin’ for some milk for th’ childer.  An’ hoo said ut everybody wur ooined (punished for want of food) at their house but Oliver an’ th’ dog.  Theer’s awlus enugh for them.’