of
the things which beautified her little home; and she always woke early,
so as to meet his first look, when he came into the room.

Still it must be confessed that the absence of her door did at times
make her poor home more desolate; when, for instance, the winds went
mad, and the rain came down in torrents from the clouds, O, such a
frolicking as there was down her large chimney, and out through the
doorway! Then round and round the house they would run, chasing each
other,--now bursting into a boisterous mirth, now howling in low, dull
tones, until in again at the door they swept, and up through the
chimney.

In Maggie's mind, the chimney and open doorway belonged especially to
the winds. She always thought of them in connection, and, when they
began their frolicking, she would seat herself in one corner, and
listen. Sometimes it seemed as though the winds rushed at one
another,--one coming down the chimney, and the other in at the door;
then, when they met, there was a kind of explosion, a thick, quick
quarrel, and then they would draw off in merry laughter; then would
Maggie clap her hands with glee, thinking it fine sport; but when a
whole blast burst at once upon the house, and seemed desperately to
struggle through every crevice, she would crouch with fear, and upbraid
the winds with their sudden freaks.

There was one mystery which Maggie found herself unable to unravel; it
was this: She felt perfectly certain the chimney was made for the winds
to come down through, and still she knew it was intended for her to make
a smoky kind of fire once in a while on its hearth, with which the winds
quarrelled, and destroyed it. Here were two things irreconcilable. Often
would she stand on the hearth, and look up the black throat of the
chimney, wondering how this inconsistency happened, wishing again and
again that the winds would like the fire, and let it burn well; but she
never thought of asking them to desist. She looked upon their freaks as
privileged.

To the dear Dove did Maggie always turn for comfort and relief. Its love
was a guarantee of her mother's, and, as often as she looked upon and
held it to her heart, so often did she feel sure that one day she would
feel the pressure of her mother's hand upon her head.

Once, when Maggie was talking to the Dove, and thinking of her mother,
it came into her head to begin that journey to the Great King's palace.
"Why not?" said she; "why do I live here? The cold