, "I know no more about the little thing
than you do. Some neighbor'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 labor!--no image at
all!--no piled-up heap of snow!--nothing whatever save the prints of
little footsteps around a vacant space!

"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 be our 'ittle snow-sister. Is she
not beau-ti-ful? But she gave me such a cold kiss!"

"Poh, nonsense, children!" cried their good, honest father, who had a
plain matter-of-fact 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 parlor; 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 white 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.

"Nonsense, children, nonsense, nonsense!" cried the father, half-vexed,
half-laughing. "Run into the house, this moment! It is too late to play
any longer now. I must take care of this little girl, or she will catch
her death-a-cold!"

And so, with a most benevolent smile, this very well-meaning gentleman
took the snow-child by the hand and led her toward the house.

She followed them, droopingly and reluctant, for all the glow and
sparkle were gone out of her figure; and whereas just before she had
resembled a bright, frosty, star-gemmed evening, with a crimson gleam on
the cold horizon, she now looked as dull and languid as a thaw.

As kind Mr. Lindsey led her up the steps of the door, Violet and Peony
looked into his face, their eyes full of tears, which froze before they
could run down their cheeks, and entreated him not to bring the