ed 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?"

At this instant a flock of snow-birds 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, fluttered eagerly
about her head, alighted on her shoulders, and seemed to claim her as
an old acquaintance. She, on her part, was evidently as glad to see
these little birds, old Winter's grandchildren, as they were to see
her, and welcomed them by holding out both her hands. Hereupon, they
each and all tried to alight on her two palms and ten small fingers and
thumbs, crowding one another off, with an immense fluttering of their
tiny wings. One dear little bird nestled tenderly in her bosom; another
put its bill to her lips. They were as joyous, all the while, and
seemed as much in their element, as you may have seen them when
sporting with a snow-storm.

Violet and Peony stood laughing at this pretty sight; for they enjoyed
the merry time which their new playmate was having with these
small-winged visitants, almost as much as if they themselves took part
in it.

"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, and apparently 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," asseverated 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 the day long, and
was glad to get back to his