My life had now changed completely. At school we arranged where to meet in the afternoon, and every day grew to be a great event. It happened sometimes that my new friends paid me a visit. Then we played in the yard, and I felt proud of my flowers. But I don't think my little friends really cared for them as much as I did. Both Hilda and Leopoldine were fond of fishing out all sorts of rubbish from the brooklet, and climbing up the wall that separated the houses. Leopoldine came to see me more often than Hilda, who, as I knew and perfectly understood, was not allowed to have many friends. It was for that reason that I hardly ever saw her anywhere but at school. She was the one I loved best. Our meetings, however, were usually held round the church. The church was placed in the centre of a large square, and possessing many a nook and corner, made an ideal spot for all our games. My brother was as a matter of course a very constant member. Another little boy joined us now and again, and then my brother was most happy. He liked boys decidedly better than girls; "girls," he used to say, "are silly." By-and-by I got to know different people who lived in the village. Leopoldine took me one day to friends of hers, whose little house was situated close to the grave-yard. The man was a dyer by trade, and I thought him very interesting. He had a long beard that was raven black, and hands not a shade lighter. His hands were so black because of his trade. His wife was stout of figure and red and round of face. In one of the rooms there stood a cupboard with glass doors. It contained glasses that were never used, and cups that had flowers and names painted on them. The cupboard soon claimed my whole attention. Whenever we went there again after that first visit, the dyer's wife gave us an apple or perhaps a piece of white bread. She was very kind to both of us, but did not often speak to me. It was chiefly my friend to whom she addressed her remarks. But that I did not mind in the least. I was so happy to sit in front of that cupboard and look at the things. At first I thought everything equally perfect, but by-and-by my attention was concentrated upon one particular piece. This was a small statue of the Holy Mother, dressed all in white except the veil, which was edged light blue. One evening a wonderful thing happened. The dyer's wife talked with Leopoldine, who, by-the-by, fidgeted about on her chair in the fashion that children do, and I stared at the Holy Mother. She seemed to be even more beautiful than ever, and just when I was wonderingly thinking whether or not I, too, might look as pretty with a white frock and the very same veil on, our hostess stepped up to the cupboard, singled out the object of my admiration, and placed herself in front of me. I trembled with delight. Never had I been so close to it. The glass doors had, though kept spotlessly clean, always hidden parts of its dainty beauty from my longing eyes. And now, there