Oh, how pretty!"

"We must have some shining little bits of ice to make the brightness
of her eyes. She is not finished yet," Violet went on.

"Here they are," cried Peony. "Mother, mother! Look out and see what a
nice little girl we have made!"

Their mother put down her work for an instant and looked out of the
window. She was dazzled by the sun that had sunk almost to the edge of
the world so she could not see the garden very distinctly. Still,
through all the brightness of the sun and the snow, she saw a strange,
small white figure in the garden. Peony was bringing fresh snow, and
Violet was moulding it as a sculptor adds clay to his model.

"They do everything better than other children," their mother thought.
"No wonder they make better snow images."

She sat down again to her work, and Violet and Peony talked about
what a nice playmate their little snow sister would be for them all
winter. Suddenly Violet called out joyfully:

"Look, Peony! Come quickly! A light has been shining on her cheek from
that rose-colored cloud, and the color does not go away."

"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. "Does she live near us?"

Violet laughed that her mother could not understand so clear a matter.
"This is our litt