And this morning she has flown off to visit the countries of the south, where the grapes and the lemons grow.
“It is all so blue there,” she had said, “I must go and cast my veil of white across their hills and meadows.” And away she flew.
So Kay sits in the great ice hall alone. Chips of ice are his only playthings, and now he leaves them on the ice-floor and goes to the window to gaze at the snowdrifts in the palace garden. Great gusts of wind swirl the snow past the windows. Kay can see nothing. He turns again to his ice toys.
Outside, little Gerda struggles through the biting wind, then, saying her morning prayer, she enters the vast hall. At a glance she sees the lonely boy. In a twinkling she knows it is Kay. Her little bare feet carry her like wings across the ice floor. Her arms are round his neck.
“Kay, dear, dear Kay!”
But Kay does not move. He is still and cold as the palace walls.
Little Gerda bursts into tears, hot, scalding tears. Her arms are yet round Kay’s neck, and her tears fall upon his heart of ice. They thaw it. They reach the grain of glass, and it melts away.
And now Kay’s tears fall hot and fast, and as they pour, the tiny bit of glass passes out of his eye, and he sees, he knows, his long-lost playmate.
“Little Gerda, little Gerda!” he cries, “where have you been, where have you been, where are we now?” and he shivers as he looks round the vast cold hall.
But Gerda kisses his white cheeks, and they grow rosy; she kisses his eyes, and they shine like stars; she kisses his hands and feet, and he is strong and glad.