Marjorie seemed to be lifted by unconscious hands from her saddle, and to find herself on a smooth, springing turf, where little violets lay nestling under the starlight.
"Why, how can they grow?" she exclaimed, in shy delight.
"Shall I tell her?" said the horse.
"You may if you like," answered the dwarf. "Only I am afraid she never would understand it."
The horse waited a moment, and giving one or two rocks, said:
"Well, these flowers grow for every kindly Christmas deed done by any child out of Christmas-land, no matter how poor or simple the child is. Do you see that rose-bush?"
Marjorie looked and saw a lovely garland of red roses filling the air with fragrance.
"Well," pursued the horse, "that grew when a little child in a hospital shared its toys on Christmas-eve with one who had nothing."
"And the winter frost does not hurt them?"
"How can it, when a good deed has given them life? Their kind of perfume can't be touched by snow or frost."