"Eh! What?" asked the old man sharply, looking more attentively at the bird.
Robin gave a little chirp, tapped at the window with its bill, and then turned again as if to say "Why don't you come?"
The miser brightened up.
"Dear me! I really think you are right," he said, again taking up the lantern.
Robin flew out, stopping every now and then to see if the miser was following him. On, on they went a weary way. The moon struggled hard to pierce through the thick clouds, and shed a pale silvery light around to guide them on their way.
At last, with a succession of little chirps, Robin stopped before something that looked like a dark speck. The miser followed cautiously, for he well knew the treacherous moors. He stood still while Robin scraped away the snow from her face with his little bill, and there lay poor little Elsie, fast asleep, nearly buried in the snow. Gran'f'er very carefully lifted her out of the drift, and wrapping her in his great coat, wended his way home with a great joy in his heart, Robin hovering around all the way.
Old Nanny was sitting by the dying embers with her apron over her head, rocking herself backwards and forwards, and crooning a doleful dirge; but she sprang up joyfully when the old man entered with the child in his arms.
"Make up the fire," were the first words he said. Nanny put on a small stick.
"A good roaring fire," added the old man. Nanny could hardly believe her ears, but she cautiously put on another stick.
The old man carefully laid Elsie down on the one arm-chair the room possessed.