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           Andthematchesgavesuchabrilliantlightthatitwasbrighterthanatnoon-day:neverformerlyhadthegrandmotherbeensobeautifulandsotall.Shetookthelittlemaiden,onherarm,andbothflewinbrightnessandinjoysohigh,soveryhigh,andthenabovewasneithercold,norhunger,noranxiety—theywerewithGod.

           Butinthecorner,atthecoldhourofdawn,satthepoorgirl,withrosycheeksandwithasmilingmouth,leaningagainstthewall—frozentodeathonthelasteveningoftheoldyear.Stiffandstarksatthechildtherewithhermatches,ofwhichonebundlehadbeenburnt.“Shewantedtowarmherself,”peoplesaid.Noonehadtheslightestsuspicionofwhatbeautifulthingsshehadseen;nooneevendreamedofthesplendorinwhich,withhergrandmothershehadenteredonthejoysofanewyear.