“Then let’s go home and attend to it,” said Malkin.
Up on the mountain top, Merrimeg sank down deeper and deeper into the soft snow. It seemed to her that she was falling for hours, and that she would never come to the bottom; but at last she broke through the bottom of the snow, and underneath was a dark river, and in it were floating blocks of thick ice, and Merrimeg dropped right onto one of these blocks of ice as it was going along under her, and it carried her away down the dark stream, with a roof of snow over her head. Then she grew so dizzy that she really didn’t know anything for a long time.
When she came to herself, she was floating along quietly on her block of ice through the woods, and the sun was shining and the birds were singing; and the ice had melted away so much that it would scarcely hold her. It was only a thin film under her, and she was getting wetter and wetter; and in another moment the ice struck a stone in the bottom and broke, and she was standing in the water up to her knees.
The water was cool and pleasant, and she was surprised to find that she wasn’t cold any longer, and that she could move as well as ever. She waded to the shore and walked on into the woods; and she had not walked very far when she saw a bright green patch of moss under the trees. She knew that it was the roof of the gnomes’ house, and she wanted to see them again, for she was afraid she hadn’t been very polite to them, and she knew she ought to thank them. She threw herself down on the bed of moss, but it wouldn’t give way under her. The gnomes must have put something strong underneath to hold it up. Anyway, she couldn’t break through.
She knew where she was now, and it didn’t take her long to reach the pool where she had tried to wash the black off her face. She stooped down over the pool and looked at herself in the clear water.
She was fair as a lily, and her cheeks were red as roses.
She jumped up singing and ran towards the village where she lived.
As she skipped down the village street, she was singing over and over again, “The mountain has made me white again! The mountain has made me white again!” And all the children playing in the street stopped to stare at her, wondering what she meant, and some of them called after her, “Merrimeg! Merrimeg!” But she paid no attention. She ran home, skipping and dancing, and hurried through the cabbage garden and in at the kitchen door. Her little broom was lying on the floor where she had left it. At the back of the fireplace was the pile of dust, exactly where she had swept it. She thought it was queer that the wind which had drawn her up the chimney hadn’t blown away the dust; but there it was. Probably those chimney imps wanted to leave it where her mother would be sure to see it.
She snatched up the broom and swept the dust into the dustpan, and you can believe that she didn’t put her head into the fireplace, either; she reached in and swept the dust out into the dustpan and carried it out to the cabbage garden and emptied it. And as she came back into the kitchen her mother came in from the front room and said,——
“Oh, here you are. Where have you been so long? While you were out there was a funny little black girl who came to the door and said she was Merrimeg!”