"Oh! Yes; there is apt to be a good deal of it," said Norton, "when it falls as hard as it can all one day and two nights."
"But Norton, to think that all that snow is just those elegant little star feathers piled up; all over the fields and house roofs, a foot and a half thick, it is all those feathery stars!"
"Well," said Norton; "what of it?"
"Why it is wonderful," said Matilda. "It almost seems like a waste, doesn't it? only that couldn't be."
"A waste?" said Norton. "A waste of what?"
"Why nobody sees, or thinks, that the street is covered with such beautiful things—the street and the fields and the houses; people only think it is snow, and that's all; when it is just little wonders of beauty, of a great many sorts too. It seems very strange."
"Only to you," said Norton. "It'll be rich to shew you things."
"But why do you suppose it is so, Norton? I should like to ask Mr. Richmond."
"Mr. Richmond couldn't tell," said Norton.
"It must be that God is so rich," Matilda went on reverently. "So rich!" she repeated, looking at the piled-up burden of snow along the house roofs of the street. "But then, Norton, he must care to have things beautiful."