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. Meanwhile, I will inquire among the neighbors; or, if
necessary, send the city-crier about the streets, to give notice of a
lost child."

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.

"Dear father," cried Violet, putting herself before him, "it is true
what I have been telling you! This is our little snow-girl, and she
cannot live any longer than while she breathes the cold west wind. Do
not make her come into the hot room!"

"Yes, father," shouted Peony, stamping his little foot, so mightily
was he in earnest, "this be nothing but our 'ittle snow-child! She
will not love the hot fire!"

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

[Illustration: {The children with their father and the snow girl}]

"Husband! dear husband!" said his wife, in a low voice,--for she had
been looking narrowly at the snow-child, and was more perplexed than
ever,--"there is something very singular in all this. You will think
me foolish,--but--but--may it not be that some invisible angel has
been attracted by the simplicity and good faith with which our
children set about their undertaking? May he not have spent an hour of
his immortality in playing with those dear little souls? and so the
result is what we call a miracle. No, no! Do not laugh at me; I see
what a foolish thought it is!"

"My dear wife," replied the husband, laughing heartily, "you are as
much a child as Violet and Peony."

And in one sense so she was, for all through life she had kept her
heart full of childlike simplicity and faith, which was as pure and
clear as crystal; and, looking at all matters through this transparent
medium, she sometimes saw truths so profound, that other people
laughed at them as nonsense and absurdity.

But now kind M