He returned home in good time for his work upon the fiord, and if it had not been for the store of silver pieces he poured into his mother's work-box, he would almost have imagined that he had only been dreaming.
That night, as he laid his curly head upon the pillow, his mind was full of thoughts about the Moon-Angel. He wondered if she would appear again, and whether she would once more leave him her gift of the white frost-flowers.
The moon shone with silvery clearness into the garret; and as the boy strained his eyes towards the window, the bright form slowly floated through the bars and stretched a pale hand towards him.
"You have done well, to-day, Erik. Look to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, until my light has waned and faded; and every day you will find the lilies waiting for you."
Again Erik felt the soft brush of Vanda's wings, and she disappeared in the path of the moonbeams.
The next morning the flowers lay fresh and fair upon the window-sill, and for days the frost-lilies were always blooming.
But each time the bunch grew smaller and smaller, until at last, when the moon was nothing more than a thread of brightness, Erik found one single blossom lying half drooping on the window-frame.
"Vanda's gifts have ended," thought Erik, "but she has been a good true friend to us! We have gained enough money for my mother to put away her iron, and take the little farmhouse by the fiord. How happy we shall be together."
The winter was nearly over, and Erik and his mother had settled down to their happy life in the farmhouse.