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She sat down again to her work, and Violet and Peony talked about what a nice playmate their little snow sister would be for them all winter. Suddenly Violet called out joyfully:

“Look, Peony! Come quickly! A light has been shining on her cheek from that rose-colored cloud, and the color does not go away.”

“And look, Violet!” Peony answered. “Oh, look at her hair! It is all like gold.”

“Oh, of course,” Violet said. “That color, you know, comes from the golden clouds. She is almost finished now. But her lips must be very red. Let us kiss them, Peony!”

Just then there came a breeze of the pure west wind blowing through the garden. It sounded so wintry cold that the mother was about to tap on the window pane to call the children in, when they both cried out to her with one voice:

“Mother, mother! We have finished our little snow sister and she is running about the garden with us!”

“They make me almost as much of a child as they,” the mother said. “I can almost believe now that the snow image has really come to life.” She went to the door and looked all over the garden. There was no gleam or dazzle now on it and she could see very well. What do you think she saw there?

Why, if you will believe me, there was a small figure of a girl dressed all in white, with rosy cheeks and golden curls, playing with Violet and Peony. She was none of the neighboring children. Not one had so sweet a face. Her dress fluttered in the breeze; she danced about in tiny white slippers. She was like a flying snowdrift.

“Who is this child?” the mother asked. “Does she live near us?”

Violet laughed that her mother could not understand so clear a matter. “This is our little snow sister,” she said, “whom we have just been making.”

At that instant a flock of snowbirds came flitting through the air. As was very natural, they avoided Violet and Peony. But–and this looked strange–they flew at once to the white-robed child, lighted on her shoulder, and seemed to claim her as their friend.

The little snow image was as glad to see these birds, old Winter’s grandchildren, as they were to see her, and she welcomed them by holding out both of her hands. They tried to all alight on her ten small fingers and thumbs, crowding one another with a great fluttering of wings. One snowbird nestled close to her heart and another put its bill to her lips.

Just then the garden gate was thrown open and the children’s father came in. A fur cap was drawn down over his ears and the thickest of gloves covered his hands. He had been working all day and was glad to get home. He smiled as he saw the children and their mother. His heart was tender, but his head was as hard and impenetrable as one of the iron pots that he sold in his hardware shop. At once, though, he perceived the little white stranger, playing in the garden, like a dancing snow wraith with the flock of snowbirds fluttering around her head.

“What little girl is that,” he asked, “out in such bitter weather in a flimsy white gown and those thin slippers?”

“I don’t know,” the mother said. “The children say she is nothing but a snow image that they have been making this afternoon.”

As she said this, the mother glanced toward the spot where the children’s snow image had been made. There was no trace of it–no piled-up heap of snow–nothing save the prints of little footsteps around a vacant space!

“Nonsense!” said the father in his kind, matter-of-fact way. “This little stranger must be brought in out of the snow. We will take her into the parlor, and you shall give her a supper of warm bread and milk and make her as comfortable as you can.”