“Count forty,” she went on, using the very words of Pretty Tommy, our parish clerk:  “count forty, and let fly with ‘Now draw around—­’”

     “Now draw around, good Christian men,
      And rest you worship-ping—­”

We sang the carol softly together, she resting one hand on the edge of the manger.

“Dick, ain’t you proud of him?  I don’t see the spiders beginning, though.”

“The spiders?”

“Dick, you’re very ig-norant. Everybody knows that, when Christ was laid in a manger, the spiders came and spun their webs over Him and hid Him.  That’s why King Herod couldn’t find Him.”

“There, now!  We live and learn,” said I.

“Well, now there’s nothing to do but sit down and wait for the wise men and the shepherds.”

It was a little while that she watched, being long over-tired.  The warm air of the chall weighed on her eyelids; and, as they closed, her head sank on my shoulder.  For ten minutes I sat, listening to her breathing.  Dinah rose heavily from her bed and lay down again, with a long sigh; another cow woke up and rattled her rope a dozen times through its ring; up at the house the fiddling grew more furious; but the little maid slept on.  At last I wrapped the sack closely round her, and lifting her in my arms, carried her out into the night.  She was my master’s daughter, and I had not the courage to kiss so much as her hair.  Yet I had no envy for the dancers, then.

As we passed into the cold air she stirred.  “Did they come?  And where are you carrying me?” Then, when I told her, “Dick, I will never speak to you again, if you don’t carry me first to the gate of the upper field.”

So I carried her to the gate, and sitting up in my arms she called twice: 

“Laban—­Laban!”

“What cheer—­O?” the hind called back.  His lantern was a spark on the hill-side, and he could not tell the voice at that distance.

“Have you seen him?”

“Wha-a-a-t?”

“The angel of the Lo-o-ord!”

“Wha-a-a-t?”

“I’m afraid we can’t make him understand,” she whispered.  “Hush; don’t shout!” For a moment, she seemed to consider; and then her shrill treble quavered out on the frosty air, my own deeper voice taking up the second line—­

     “The first’ Nowell’ the angel did say
      Was to certain poor shepherds, in fields as they lay,
      —­In fields as they lay, a-tending their sheep,
      On a cold winters night that was so deep—­
                                Nowell!  Nowell! 
      Christ is born in Israel!”

Our voices followed our shadows across the gate and far up the field, where Laban’s sheep lay dotted.  What Laban thought of it I cannot tell:  but to me it seemed, for the moment, that the shepherd among his ewes, the dancers within the house, the sea beneath us, and the stars in their courses overhead moved all to one tune,—­the carol of two children on the hill-side.