d clean; and little Erik
Svenson lay in the small bed facing the barred window, through which
the moonbeams streamed till they seemed to turn the walls into
polished silver.

As Erik tossed about, he heard his mother working in the room below.

The _thump, thump,_ of her iron, as she wearily finished the last of
the clothes, that must be sent home to the rich family at the
farmhouse, early next morning.

"Poor mother! how hard she works," thought Erik, "and I can't do more
than mind Farmer Torvald's boat on the fiord. If I could only be
employed in the town, I might be able to help her!"

_Thump_, _thump_, went the iron. The clock chimed twelve, and still
the poor washerwoman smoothed and folded, though her heavy eyes almost
refused to keep open, and the room began to feel the chill of the
frosty air outside.

"Erik sha'n't want for anything while I have two arms to work for
him," she said to herself; and went on until the iron fell from her
tired hand, and she sank back in her chair in a deep sleep.

Erik, too, had closed his eyes, and was dreaming happily, when he was
awakened by the brush of something light and soft, across his pillow.

Starting up, he saw that the moon was still brilliant, and in its
clearest rays stood a faint white figure, with shadowy wings
outstretched behind it.

A vapoury garment enveloped it, and the face seemed young and
beautiful.

"Oh, how wonderful! How wonderful you are!" cried Erik. "Why have I
never seen you before?"

"I am Vanda, the Spirit of the Moon," said the Angel gently. "Only to
those who are in need of help can I become visible. Your mother knows
me well. Winter and summer, I have soothed her to sleep; and to-night,
as you looked from the window, your thoughts joined mine, and I was
able to come to you. What will you ask of me?"

"Oh, Vanda, dear Vanda! Show me how to help my mother; I ask nothing
else!" cried Erik.

He jumped from his bed, and threw himself at the feet of the shadowy
Angel.

"Do you see that window?" said the Moon-Spirit, pointing to the small
panes that were now covered with a delicate tracery of glittering
frost-work. "Of what do those patterns remind you?"

[Illustration]

"Of flowers!" cried Erik. "I have often thought so. Sometimes I can
see grasses, and boughs, and roses, but _always_ lilies, because they
are so white and spotless."

The Angel smiled softly.

"To-night I shall shine upon them, and make them live," she said.
"Tak