Far, far away, Philippe saw, through a twilight haze of gold, what he had never seen before: the deep ocean where Grandmother Rain was holding her family reunion. The crimson sun was rolling over the blue edge of the world into its sparkling heart. He sat down in the crevice of a rock and thought long and wonderingly of the things that had come to pass that day, and he tried to see, in the land that was spread like a map before his eyes, the red roof and clump of trees that would be his own home. He did so long to be with his darling mother again! And very soon it would be dark.... Silver stars began to shine in a pale green sky.... Golden stars were lit in a sky of deepening purple.... More and more stars in a sky dark blue. Night had suddenly closed in around him, and he was frightened and started to cry. [Illustration] “Uncle Pablôt—I mean, Uncle Wind—I want to go home!” But where was Uncle Wind? There was no answer, no sound, and search as carefully as he would, Philippe could find no trace of him. It was as if he had utterly vanished, which, indeed, he had, for the time being. What was poor Philippe to do? The hilltop stones that surrounded him took menacing forms; he was sure that he saw the shining eyes, green and glowing, of prowling beasts. He summoned all his courage and bravely started to walk—where? Downhill, for he remembered that Grandmother Rain had told him, as they floated along the river, that that was the only way any sensible person would ever care to travel. Besides, when you were on the top of a hill, unless you stayed there, there was no other choice. Where else he was bound for he had no idea, but anything would be better than the unbroken stillness of the haunted rocks. How far he walked, at times ran, through the dark night, falling over roots and tearing his way through scratching brambles, pursued by unseen terrors of darkness, before he came to the old man, he had no idea. At first he was timid of approaching the bent figure sitting huddled on a stump, so dim under the starlight. But loneliness and the longing for companionship overcame his fear. “Please, sir,” he said, drawing slowly closer, “please, sir, could you tell me—— _Grandfather Joseph! Grandfather Joseph!_”—and he flung his arms around Grandfather’s neck, the hot tears streaming down his cheeks. But how cold Grandfather was! The touch of Grandfather’s face against Philippe’s burned like ice. “Watch out!” said Grandfather sharply, “You are so insufferably warm you will melt me, if I do not succeed in freezing you first. And, young Philippe, be careful the names you call people. Look carefully at me again; do you not know me?” Philippe was doubtful. Surely it was Grandfather Joseph, and yet—Grandfather had never been so cold, nor so strange in his behavior. Did he know him? “Yes—no,” answered Philippe, not being able to decide. “Yes, _Snow_, that is right! I am Grandfather Snow.” “It’s very upsetting!” remarked the puzzled boy.