le 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."

But Violet and Peony seized their father by the hand.

"No," they cried. "This is our little snow girl, and she needs the
cold west wind to breathe."

Their mother spoke, too. "There is something very strange about this,"
she said. "Could it be a miracle come to the children through their
faith in their play?"

The father laughed. "You are as much a child as Violet and Peony," he
said. Then he reached out his hand to draw the snow child into the
house.

As he approached the snowbirds took to