Mrs. Silverton, pale with anxiety, sent other messengers in various directions, and then started off herself. On the moor she met another search party headed by old Mr. Silverton and his faithful collie dog. And the moor rang with anxious cries of "Rosella! Rosella!" uttered by whitened shadowy figures that looked like phantoms in the falling snow.
"I must try and find my way to Grandfather," repeated Rosella falteringly, realising that she didn't know in the least how to proceed. She never had a notion that a Snow Castle was so intricate inside, with a hall, a lift, a grotto, and things; indeed, she had always imagined for no particular reason that it had no inside at all; "but of course," she now argued, "if it has an outside it must have an inside, or it wouldn't be an outside." But it was much more startling when she looked up and found that she was by no means alone: the cobwebs were all inhabited. Inhabited—not by ugly spiders, but by the wee-est little baby-fairies with the wee-est gossamer wings, swaying in their cobweb hammocks in all attitudes, fast asleep, soothed by the lullaby hummed by the wind.
"This must be where they are bred!" cried Rosella, in an ecstasy of admiration and delight.
"This is Fairy Spring's nursery," explained a beautiful Sprite, appearing suddenly at her elbow like a little bright sunbeam. "King Frost is the ground landlord, you know, and allows all her young things to sleep here and keep warm."
"And who are you, please?" inquired the Sprite's young visitor.
"I am Love of Goodwill, and my father's name is Christmas."
"I know you by name quite well, and am so glad to see you. Perhaps you would kindly help me to find my way?"
"If you keep on going to the right, when you see the snowdrops' mother, there you will find your landmark."
"Oh, do please tell me more clearly. What did you say? Tell me where I"—but Rosella was again alone in the green grotto with the sleeping baby-fairies in their swaying hammocks, and the soft music of the wind. "Surely there can't be any grown-up snowdrops at Christmas—it's too early!—and I shall be losing my way for weeks!" continued Rosella. Nevertheless, she kept on turning to the right through upward passages first of rock, then of sand, in which were embedded deep growing roots, then of soil with its minerals, broken up leaves, and corpses of insects which she didn't like at all; then through a passage lined with true red soil, where little grubs were lying fast asleep in their nests.