And Gerda and Kay told their story.
‘Snip-snap-snurre-basselurre!’ said the robber-maiden. She pressed the hands of both, promised that if ever she passed through their town she would pay them a visit, and then bade them farewell, and rode away out into the wide world.
Kay and Gerda walked on hand in hand, and wherever they went it was spring, beautiful spring, with its bright flowers and green leaves.
They arrived at a large town, the church bells were ringing merrily, and they immediately recognised the high towers rising into the sky—it was the town wherein they had lived. Joyfully they passed through the streets, joyfully they stopped at the door of Gerda’s grandmother. They walked up the stairs and entered the well-known room. The clock said ‘Tick, tick!’ and the hands moved as before. Only one alteration could they find, and that was in themselves, for they saw that they were now full-grown persons. The rose-trees on the roof blossomed in front of the open window, and there beneath them stood the children’s stools. Kay and Gerda went and sat down upon them, still holding each other by the hands; the cold, hollow splendour of the Snow Queen’s palace they had forgotten, it seemed to them only an unpleasant dream. The grandmother meanwhile sat amid God’s bright sunshine, and read from the Bible these words: ‘Unless ye become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.’
And Kay and Gerda gazed on each other; they now understood the words of their hymn—
‘Our roses bloom and fade away,
Our Infant Lord abides alway;
May we be blessed His face to see,
And ever little children be!’
There they sat, those two happy ones, grown-up and yet children—children in heart, while all around them glowed bright summer,—warm, glorious summer.
