"
"And look, Violet!" Peony answered. "Oh, look at her hair! It is all
like gold."
"Oh, of course," Violet said. "That color, you know, comes from the
golden clouds. She is almost finished now. But her lips must be very
red. Let us kiss them, Peony!"
Just then there came a breeze of the pure west wind blowing through
the garden. It sounded so wintry cold that the mother was about to tap
on the window pane to call the children in, when they both cried out
to her with one voice:
"Mother, mother! We have finished our little snow sister and she is
running about the garden with us!"
"They make me almost as much of a child as they," the mother said. "I
can almost believe now that the snow image has really come to life."
She went to the door and looked all over the garden. There was no
gleam or dazzle now on it and she could see very well. What do you
think she saw there?
Why, if you will believe me, there was a small figure of a girl
dressed all in white, with rosy cheeks and golden curls, playing with
Violet and Peony. She was none of the neighboring children. Not one
had so sweet a face. Her dress fluttered in the breeze; she danced
about in tiny white slippers. She was like a flying snowdrift.
"Who is this child?" the mother asked.
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