Pole into an oven. Oh, this was a fine place for the little white
stranger!

The common-sensible man placed the snow-child on the hearth-rug,
right in front of the hissing and fuming stove.

"Now she will be comfortable!" cried Mr. Lindsey, rubbing his
hands and looking about him, with the pleasantest smile you ever
saw. "Make yourself at home, my child."

Sad, sad and drooping, looked the little white maiden, as she
stood on the hearth-rug, with the hot blast of the stove striking
through her like a pestilence. Once, she threw a glance wistfully
toward the windows, and caught a glimpse, through its red
curtains, of the snow-covered roofs, and the stars glimmering
frostily, and all the delicious intensity of the cold night. The
bleak wind rattled the window-panes, as if it were summoning her
to come forth. But there stood the snow-child, drooping, before
the hot stove!

But the common-sensible man saw nothing amiss.

"Come wife," said he, "let her have a pair of thick stockings and
a woollen shawl or blanket directly; and tell Dora to give her
some warm supper as soon as the milk boils. You, Violet and
Peony, amuse your little friend. She is out of spirits, you see,
at finding herself in a strange place. For my part, I will go
around among the neighbors, and find out where she belongs."

The mother, meanwhile, had gone in search of the shawl and