Her prayer said, the old woman put a little earthen pot on the fire, and again seated herself on the stool by the side of it.
“Ah! it’s no merry Christmas,” said she, “here, or any where else; but I have known a worse; and I think this is safe hiding, for the folk all think the place haunted. Well, I must thank God, and make the best of it.”
As she ended these words, she began humming the air of an old Christmas carol, and at last sung, in the mournful voice of age, this ancient fragment:—
“He neither shall be clothed
In purple nor in pall,
But all in fair linen,
As were babies all;
He neither shall be rocked
In silver nor in gold,
But in a wooden cradle,