“But his mother said no more, and when the pails were full Kline took them from her and carried them into one of the little huts; and then returning he drove the cows into their little log dwelling, and taking up his birds and gun he walked slowly to the house. But the gayly-painted door was out of tune with his mood, and he turned and went round the back way.
“Leaving both gun and birds in the kitchen, Kline opened softly a door leading to one of the bedrooms and went in.
“The corners of this room and the sides of the windows were boarded, and the floor was strewed with fresh twigs of the juniper tree; which gave a sweet smell through the room, and made it look pretty too. Of the three windows two looked towards the fiord and one to the mountain and over the little clearing. The bed stood in a recess that had doors like one of your cupboards; but these now were open, and by the bedside stood a little white pine table, and upon it a wooden bowl and spoon—all prettily carved.”
“How were they carved?” said Carl.
“The bowl had carved upon it a spray of the wild bramble—twining round with its leaves and berries; and the handle of the spoon was like a wild duck’s head; and the feet of the table were like bear’s feet. Kline had done it all, for in Norway the men and boys carve a great deal, and very beautifully; and this bowl and spoon had been made for his little sister as he sat by her bedside, and Kline was very proud of them. The feathers on the duck’s head were beautifully done, and the bramble-berries looked pretty enough to eat. But Kline did not once look at them now, for something far prettier lay on the bed, and that was little Sneeflocken.”
“What did they call her that for?” said Carl.
“Because that is the name of the snowflakes. And she was just as pure and fresh as they, and had never had the least bit of colour in her cheeks from the time she was a baby. You could scarcely have distinguished them from the pillow, but for the fair hair that came between. She was covered with a quilt made of down; for Kline had risked his life almost in climbing to the high difficult places where the eider ducks build their nests, that he might get the soft down which the mother duck plucks from her own breast to keep her eggs and nestlings warm. And Norrska had made it into a quilt, the warmest thing that could be—while the weight of it was almost nothing.
“And beneath this soft quilt Sneeflocken lay, with her eyes closed, and singing softly to herself in the Norse language a hymn, which was something like this:—
‘O little child, lie still and sleep!—