There above me was the crow-stepped gable of the Red Tower, with the axe set on the pinnacle rustily bright in the coming light of the morning--all swept clean of snow.

But no little maid.
I ran to the verge and peered down.

I saw a great heap of frozen snow fallen on its edge and partly canted over, half covering a deep red stain which was turning black and horrid in the daylight.

But no little maid.
Then I ran all over the house calling to her, but could not find her anywhere.

I was just beginning to bethink me that she might be a fairy child, one that came at night and vanished like the dream gold which is forever turning to withered leaves in the morning.