once, in the course of their play, the strange child placed herself between violet and peony, and taking a hand of each, skipped merrily forward, and they along with her. almost immediately, however, peony pulled away his little fist, and began to rub it as if the fingers were tingling with cold; while violet also released herself, though with less abruptness, gravely remarking that it was better not to take hold of hands. the white-robed damsel said not a word, but danced about, just as merrily as before. if violet and peony did not choose to play with her, she could make just as good a playmate of the brisk and cold west-wind, which kept blowing her all about the garden, and took such liberties with her, that they seemed to have been friends for a long time. all this while, the mother stood on the threshold, wondering how a little girl could look so much like a flying snow-drift, or how a snow-drift could look so very like a little girl.