“Well, that night I sat down beside my nice little fire and ate an apple.  There was a plate of nice apples on my table.  Mrs. Bird put them there.  I was always very fond of apples.  Well, I sat down and ate an apple, and was having a beautiful time, and thinking how lucky I was to have got board in such a place with such nice folks, when I heard a queer little sound at my door.  It was such a little hesitating sort of sound that it sounded more like a fumble than a knock, as if some one very timid, with very little hands, was feeling along the door, not quite daring to knock.  For a minute I thought it was a mouse.  But I waited and it came again, and then I made up my mind it was a knock, but a very little scared one, so I said, ‘Come in.’

“But nobody came in, and then presently I heard the knock again.  Then I got up and opened the door, thinking it was very queer, and I had a frightened feeling without knowing why.

“Well, I opened the door, and the first thing I noticed was a draught of cold air, as if the front door downstairs was open, but there was a strange close smell about the cold draught.  It smelled more like a cellar that had been shut up for years, than out-of-doors.  Then I saw something.  I saw my coat first.  The thing that held it was so small that I couldn’t see much of anything else.  Then I saw a little white face with eyes so scared and wishful that they seemed as if they might eat a hole in anybody’s heart.  It was a dreadful little face, with something about it which made it different from any other face on earth, but it was so pitiful that somehow it did away a good deal with the dreadfulness.  And there were two little hands spotted purple with the cold, holding up my winter coat, and a strange little far-away voice said:  ’I can’t find my mother.’

“‘For Heaven’s sake,’ I said, ‘who are you?’

“Then the little voice said again:  ‘I can’t find my mother.’

“All the time I could smell the cold and I saw that it was about the child; that cold was clinging to her as if she had come out of some deadly cold place.  Well, I took my coat, I did not know what else to do, and the cold was clinging to that.  It was as cold as if it had come off ice.  When I had the coat I could see the child more plainly.  She was dressed in one little white garment made very simply.  It was a nightgown, only very long, quite covering her feet, and I could see dimly through it her little thin body mottled purple with the cold.  Her face did not look so cold; that was a clear waxen white.  Her hair was dark, but it looked as if it might be dark only because it was so damp, almost wet, and might really be light hair.  It clung very close to her forehead, which was round and white.  She would have been very beautiful if she had not been so dreadful.

“‘Who are you?’ says I again, looking at her.

“She looked at me with her terrible pleading eyes and did not say anything.