“You are beautiful, beautiful,” she said; but in a moment the tears fell again, for she thought of the rose-bushes in the balcony, and she remembered Kay.
“Oh Kay, dear, dear Kay, is he dead?” she asked the roses.
“No, he is not dead,” they answered, “for we have been beneath the brown earth, and he is not there.”
“Then where, oh, where is he?” and she went from flower to flower whispering, “Have you seen little Kay?”
But the flowers stood in the sunshine, dreaming their own dreams, and these they told the little maiden gladly, but of Kay they could not tell her, for they knew nothing.
Then the little girl ran down the garden path until she came to the garden gate. She pressed the rusty latch. The gate flew open, and Gerda ran out on her little bare feet into the green fields. And she ran, and she ran, until she could run no longer. Then she sat down on a big stone to rest.
“Why, it must be autumn,” she said sorrowfully, as she looked around. And little Gerda felt sorry that she had stayed so long in the magic garden, where it was always summer.
“Why have I not been seeking little Kay?” she asked herself, and she jumped up and trudged along, on and on, out into the great wide world.
At last the cold white winter came again, and still little Gerda was wandering alone through the wide world, for she had not found little Kay.