“Yes, he is to come on the morrow,” said the pine-tree, “but not until the day dawns, and it is still all dark in the east.”

“Yes,” said the fir-tree, “the east is black, and only the wind and the snow issue from it.”

“Keep your head out of my way!” cried the pine-tree to the fir; “with your constant bobbing around I can hardly see at all.”

“Take that for your bad manners,” retorted the fir, slapping the pine-tree savagely with one of her longest branches.

The pine-tree would put up with no such treatment, so he hurled his largest cone at the fir; and for a moment or two it looked as if there were going to be a serious commotion in the forest.

“Hush!” cried the vine in a startled tone; “there is some one coming through the forest.”

The pine-tree and the fir stopped quarrelling, and the snowdrop nestled closer to the vine, while the vine hugged the pine-tree very tightly.  All were greatly alarmed.

“Nonsense!” said the pine-tree, in a tone of assumed bravery.  “No one would venture into the forest at such an hour.”

“Indeed! and why not?” cried a child’s voice.  “Will you not let me watch with you for the coming of the prince?”

“Will you not chop me down?” inquired the pine-tree gruffly.

“Will you not tear me from my tree?” asked the vine.

“Will you not pluck my blossoms?” plaintively piped the snowdrop.

“No, of course not,” said Barbara; “I have come only to watch with you for the prince.”

Then Barbara told them who she was, and how cruelly she had been treated in the city, and how she longed to see the prince, who was to come on the morrow.  And as she talked, the forest and all therein felt a great compassion for her.

“Lie at my feet,” said the pine-tree, “and I will protect you.”

“Nestle close to me, and I will chafe your temples and body and limbs till they are warm,” said the vine.

“Let me rest upon your cheek, and I will sing you my little songs,” said the snowdrop.

And Barbara felt very grateful for all these homely kindnesses.  She rested in the velvety snow at the foot of the pine-tree, and the vine chafed her body and limbs, and the little flower sang sweet songs to her.

“Whirr-r-r, whirr-r-r!” There was that noisy wind again, but this time it was gentler than it had been in the city.

“Here you are, my little Barbara,” said the wind, in kindly tones.  “I have brought you the little snowflake.  I am glad you came away from the city, for the people are proud and haughty there; oh, but I will have my fun with them!”

Then, having dropped the little snowflake on Barbara’s cheek, the wind whisked off to the city again.  And we can imagine that it played rare pranks with the proud, haughty folk on its return; for the wind, as you know, is no respecter of persons.

“Dear Barbara,” said the snowflake, “I will watch with thee for the coming of the prince.”