“Golden Snow is the most beautiful maiden,” she answered.
“Yes,” said the old man, “Golden Snow is the most beautiful, but he who wins must seek her. She should not go to the castle for a husband, even though he were a king.”
This grieved the mother, for all her life she had eaten the bread of toil, and she longed to see the dainty fingers of her adopted child covered with rings, and to have her wear costly trailing robes, such as the wives and daughters of the great miner princes wore.
In the corner sat Golden Snow, braiding her silken hair, which was so long it swept the ground. She bound the broad plaits about her head, and formed a shiny-crown.
“Was there ever any thing like it?” said the old woman, sighing, and passing her brown hand fondly over the beautiful tresses.
“The father is right,” replied Golden Snow. “My sisters will see to it. Have never a care, mother;” and the maiden began singing the nightingale’s song, till the rafters of the old hut rang with the silvery melody.
“The chit of a child has never a care,” thought the old woman, “but it is different with me, who know what life is.”
All through the north land there was great excitement. Everywhere the young girls wrought upon gay dresses, and the fathers and mothers consulted together, that nothing might be wanting in the ball costumes of their daughters, for each one thought—“Our child is the most beautiful maiden.”
The morning dawned without a ray of sunshine. Only the heavy snow-clouds covered the sky.
“My sisters are getting ready for the ball to-night,” laughed Golden Snow. “Very soon the messengers will be flying out after the fleecy fringes and ribbons, for every one must be dressed in the real court costume.”