of ice--glittering, dazzling ice. Still, she was
alive, and her eyes sparkled like bright stars, though there was neither
peace nor rest in them. She nodded toward the window and waved her hand.
The little boy was frightened and sprang from the chair, and at the same
moment it seemed as if a large bird flew by the window.

On the following day there was a clear frost, and very soon came the
spring. The sun shone; the young green leaves burst forth; the swallows
built their nests; windows were opened, and the children sat once more
in the garden on the roof, high above all the other rooms.

[Illustration: The children sat once more in the garden on the roof....]

How beautifully the roses blossomed this summer! The little girl had
learned a hymn in which roses were spoken of. She thought of their own
roses, and she sang the hymn to the little boy, and he sang, too:

"Roses bloom and fade away;
The Christ-child shall abide alway.
Blessed are we his face to see
And ever little children be."

Then the little ones held each other by the hand, and kissed the roses,
and looked at the bright sunshine, and spoke to it as if the
Christ-child were really there. Those were glorious summer days. How
beautiful and fresh it was out among the rosebushes, which seemed as if
they would never leave off blooming.

One day Kay and Gerda sat looking at a book of pictures of animals and
birds. Just then, as the clock in the church tower struck twelve, Kay
said, "Oh, something has struck my heart!" and soon after, "There is
certainly something in my eye."

The little girl put her arm round his neck and looked into his eye, but
she could see nothing.

"I believe it is gone," he said. But it was not gone; it was one of
those bits of the looking-glass,--that magic mirror of which we have
spoken,--the ugly glass which made everything great and good appear
small and ugly, while all that was wicked and bad became more visible,
and every little fault could be plainly seen. Poor little Kay had also
received a small splinter in his heart, which very quickly turned to a
lump of ice. He felt no more pain, but the glass was there still. "Why
do you cry?" said he at last. "It makes you look ugly. There is nothing
the matter with me now. Oh, fie!" he cried suddenly; "that rose is
worm-eaten, and this one is quite crooked. After all, they are ugly
roses, just like the box in which they stand." And then he