"How cold your breath is to-night!" said Barbara, with a shiver, as
she drew her tattered little shawl the closer around her benumbed
body.
"Whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r!" answered the wind; "but why are you
out in this storm? You should be at home by the warm fire."
"I have no home," said Barbara; and then she sighed bitterly, and
something like a tiny pearl came in the corner of one of her sad blue
eyes.
But the wind did not hear her answer, for it had hurried up the street
to throw a handful of snow in the face of an old man who was
struggling along with a huge basket of good things on each arm.
"Why are you not at the cathedral?" asked a snowflake, as it alighted
on Barbara's shoulder. "I heard grand music, and saw beautiful lights
there as I floated down from the sky a moment ago."
"What are they doing at the cathedral?" inquired Barbara.
"Why, haven't you heard?" exclaimed the snowflake. "I supposed
everybody knew that the prince was coming to-morrow."
"Surely enough; this is Christmas eve," said Barbara, "and the prince
will come to-morrow."
Barbara remembered that her mother had told her about the prince, how
beautiful and good and kind and gentle he was, and how he loved the
little children; but her mother was dead now, and there was none to
tell Barbara of the prince and his coming,--none but the little
snowflake.
"I should like to see the prince," said Barbara, "for I have heard he
was very beautiful and good."
"That he is," said the snowflake.
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