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Never mind, her real home was in the front attic. The grown people of the house had very little idea how much of Christian's time was spent in this attic. But however cold the weather, Christian never felt it up there. She would remain in the huge, desolate place hour after hour, crouching in a corner, her eyes gazing fascinated at the scene which she had conjured up. Of course, she got many a cold in this way. The colds were nursed and she was well treated, and no one ever for a moment traced them to their true cause.

There came an afternoon soon after Christmas, cold and dreary, when icy blasts of wind banged up against the dormer-windows of Christian's attic, and such piles of snow were heaped up on the roofs hard by that the young girl could only picture herself as the Ice Maiden. At last the cold became unbearable, and she stepped out of fairyland and ran swiftly downstairs.

On the floor just below the attics were the nurseries and her schoolroom. In the front nursery sat old nurse. She was mending some of Christian's stockings. She had spectacles on her nose, and was singing softly to herself. Christian loved her perhaps better than anyone else in the world, but she did not wait to speak to her now. She hurried past the nurseries; their day was over. She used to sigh when she remembered how many days were over. The dolls' day, the fairy-tales day, and of course the nursery day. But, thank goodness, the hero and heroine day would never be over!