Part 5 (1/2)

A stranger though she was, the child seemed to be on as familiar terms with Violet and Peony, and they with her, as if all the three had been playmates during the whole of their little lives. The mother thought to herself that it must certainly be the daughter of one of the neighbours, and that, seeing Violet and Peony in the garden, the child had run across the street to play with them.

So this kind lady went to the door, intending to invite the little runaway into her comfortable parlour; for, now that the suns.h.i.+ne was withdrawn, the atmosphere out of doors was already growing very cold.

But, after opening the house-door, she stood an instant on the threshold, hesitating whether she ought to ask the child to come in, or whether she should even speak to her. Indeed, she almost doubted whether it were a real child, after all, or only a light wreath of the new-fallen snow, blown hither and thither about the garden by the intensely cold west wind.

There was certainly something very singular in the aspect of the little stranger. Among all the children of the neighbourhood the lady could remember no such face, with its pure white and delicate rose-colour, and the golden ringlets tossing about the forehead and cheeks.

And as for her dress, which was entirely of white, and fluttering in the breeze, it was such as no reasonable woman would put upon a little girl when sending her out to play in the depth of winter. It made this kind and careful mother s.h.i.+ver only to look at those small feet, with nothing in the world on them except a very thin pair of white slippers.

Nevertheless, airily as she was clad, the child seemed to feel not the slightest inconvenience from the cold, but danced so lightly over the snow that the tips of her toes left hardly a print in its surface; while Violet could but just keep pace with her, and Peony's short legs compelled him to lag behind.

All this while, the mother stood on the threshold, wondering how a little girl could look so much like a flying snow-drift, or how a snow-drift could look so very like a little girl.

She called Violet and whispered to her.

”Violet, my darling, what is this child's name?” asked she. ”Does she live near us?”

”Why, dearest mamma,” answered Violet, laughing to think that her mother did not comprehend so very plain an affair, ”this is our little snow-sister whom we have just been making!”

”Yes, dear mamma,” cried Peony, running to his mother, and looking up simply into her face. ”This is our snow-image! Is it not a nice 'ittle child?”

”Violet,” said her mother, greatly perplexed, ”tell me the truth, without any jest. Who is this little girl?”

”My darling mamma,” answered Violet, looking seriously into her mother's face, surprised that she should need any further explanation, ”I have told you truly who she is. It is our little snow-image which Peony and I have been making. Peony will tell you so, as well as I.”

”Yes, mamma,” declared Peony, with much gravity in his crimson little phiz, ”this is 'ittle snow-child. Is not she a nice one? But, mamma, her hand is, oh, so very cold!”

While mamma still hesitated what to think and what to do, the street-gate was thrown open, and the father of Violet and Peony appeared, wrapped in a pilot-cloth sack, with a fur cap drawn down over his ears, and the thickest of gloves upon his hands.

Mr. Lindsey was a middle-aged man, with a weary and yet a happy look in his wind-flushed and frost-pinched face, as if he had been busy all day long, and was glad to get back to his quiet home. His eyes brightened at the sight of his wife and children, although he could not help uttering a word or two of surprise at finding the whole family in the open air, on so bleak a day, and after sunset, too.

He soon perceived the little white stranger, sporting to and fro in the garden, like a dancing snow-wreath and the flock of s...o...b..rds fluttering about her head.

”Pray, what little girl may this be?” inquired this very sensible man.

”Surely her mother must be crazy, to let her go out in such bitter weather as it has been today, with only that flimsy white gown and those thin slippers!”

”My dear husband,” said his wife, ”I know no more about the little thing than you do. Some neighbour's child, I suppose. Our Violet and Peony,” she added, laughing at herself for repeating so absurd a story, ”insist that she is nothing but a snow-image which they have been busy about in the garden, almost all the afternoon.”

As she said this, the mother glanced her eyes toward the spot where the children's snow-image had been made. What was her surprise on perceiving that there was not the slightest trace of so much labour!--no image at all!--no piled-up heap of snow!--nothing whatever, save the prints of little footsteps around a vacant s.p.a.ce!

”This is very strange!” said she.

”What is strange, dear mother?” asked Violet. ”Dear father, do not you see how it is? This is our snow-image, which Peony and I have made, because we wanted another playmate. Did not we, Peony?”

”Yes, papa,” said crimson Peony. ”This is our 'ittle snow-sister. Is she not beau-ti-ful? But she gave me such a cold kiss!”

”Pooh, nonsense, children!” cried their good honest father, who had a plain, sensible way of looking at matters. ”Do not tell me of making live figures out of snow. Come, wife; this little stranger must not stay out in the bleak air a moment longer. We will bring her into the parlour; and you shall give her a supper of warm bread and milk, and make her as comfortable as you can.”

So saying, this honest and very kind-hearted man was going toward the little damsel, with the best intentions in the world. But Violet and Peony, each seizing their father by the hand, earnestly besought him not to make her come in.