Little Maggie lived all alone in a small house which contained but one room. She had lived alone ever since the time her mother had gone to the palace of the Great King. At first Maggie had cried very bitterly to think of living alone without her mother; so did her mother, too, as for that matter, for no mother ever loved her child more dearly than she did Maggie.

“Maggie,” she had said to her, when she knew she must go, “I shall love you just as tenderly as ever, and always think of you, even while I am in the Great King’s palace. It is a long journey thither, and I expect I shall be obliged to go through a great many dark and strange places before coming there; and I fear, the most of all, to leave you in this little old house all alone; but you know I cannot disobey the King, and so must follow this servant whom he has sent to bring me. But, O, Maggie, do follow me some time, for I shall be anxiously watching for you till you come! Be sure, now, and don’t disappoint me; and when you come I think you had better start early in the morning, for the road is a long and dangerous one.”

Perhaps this was a long speech to make; but when mothers go on such journeys as Maggie’s mother was to go on, it is not an unusual custom for them to do so, and especially when we remember how she would leave Maggie all alone; it was only to be wondered she said no more.

When her mother had really gone, the first thing Maggie did was to sit down upon the door-step and cry bitterly. She could not bear to think her mother had really gone, and that if ever she wanted to see her she must start upon that long, long journey. At first I don’t think she loved to think about the Great King who had taken her mother away, and she was obliged to think over the beautiful things her mother had said of him many times, before she could be glad he had called her mother. But at last she rose from the door-step, and went into the house. She had not much in it, ’tis true; she hadn’t much to put in it; and if she had had more, the house was so small there would have been no place for anything but what already was there. The principal thing in the room was the chimney-place. It was so large as to cover the whole of one side of the room. There was a broad stone hearth, on which sometimes Maggie would place a few sticks she had picked up in the streets, and light them; but the little fire they made looked just as if it were ashamed of itself for burning in such a great fireplace; and the winds, indignant at its presumption, would rush down the chimney at a more desperate rate than usual, blowing the ashes into Maggie’s eyes, as she sat before the little fire, and sending the smoke curling in funny forms about the room. So Maggie would run and cover herself in her poor bed, and say to herself that it was a comfort to have ashes and smoke; for, though they did blow in her eyes, still they came from the fire. Sometimes she would gather up sawdust, and by this fire she was able to warm her feet a little, though not much; for, as fast as she warmed them, the winds blew down again, so they were as cold as before.

You see it was a cold kind of a place in which Maggie lived; so cold that, although it was summer, still a good many people’s hearts were frozen quite stiff, so their friends despaired of their ever being thawed out; and their tongues too were affected, so they could not speak gentle, kind words. I don’t mean to say the cold ever dealt quite so shabbily by Maggie or Maggie’s mother, which was rather strange, perhaps, since they could have but little fire; and the frost could walk very boldly in through the cracks all about the house. Still it was almost as bad that such things should happen to their neighbors, as every one knows it is uncomfortable to behold such misery.

Beside the chimney-place and bed, Maggie had some cracked plates and saucers, which she arranged on the chimney-shelf, and some bits of china, which she had found in piles of rubbish, and which she thought very beautiful. Now the chimney-shelf was very high, and she managed to put these things up there by climbing up the bed-post, which was rather a dangerous thing for her to do, and as it was a very little difficult, too, she did not often take down those things.

Now those cracked plates and saucers, and bits of china, were all the ornaments Maggie had for her house; and they were very precious to her. She would sit and look at them, wondering what people did who hadn’t got any, and thinking how strange it would seem there in her house if they were taken away. You see Maggie knew how to prize little things; and so some day great ones may fall to her.

I did wrong to say she lived all alone; for she had a beautiful white Dove. Wasn’t it nice? It was very white, and nestled close in Maggie’s bosom when she carried it out of the house, and in the night it lay close to her heart. O, there was nothing Maggie prized like the Dove; for it was given her by her mother just before she went away, and she told her it would guide her when she began her journey; so it was not strange Maggie should love it so well.

It was a lovely, sensitive thing. When Maggie had become thoroughly weary and tired of living all alone by herself, she told her grief to the Dove, and it would press nearer and nearer to her heart, and when its mistress’ tears fell on its head, its moans were so sorrowful that Maggie quickly forgot her own grief, and strove to comfort it.

Now it was in the summer time, and Maggie got along pretty well, for all the cold winds which blew in that region; but winter was coming on, and she feared it might be more uncomfortable for her. It happened, one night, that she heard a great noise, and awoke in a great fright. The moon shone very brightly, and, by its light, she saw a tall, strong-looking man carrying away her door. At first she thought she must be mistaken, and that, if she waited a while, she would see that he was about to do something very different. But no; he took first the door well off the hinges, put the hinges in his pocket, the door on his back, and went off. Then Maggie jumped quickly from her bed, and, running to the open doorway, cried out,

“Don’t take my door; I live here.”

But the man certainly did not hear Maggie; at all events he did not once turn back, but went away quite out of sight.

“But what could he want with my door?” said Maggie, in a high state of amazement. “Houses all have doors; so he can’t want it for his house.” She stood a long time, wondering and perplexed; and I must acknowledge, if I had been there, I should have wondered too. It was quite a long time before Maggie could persuade herself to go to bed again, and sleep till morning, which she finally did, feeling very thankful the man didn’t take the bed.

In the morning a new joy was in store for her; she found that the sun now, when it rose, could look directly in upon her, and his warm rays would give warmth to her little room. As she looked up to the mantel-shelf, on which her bits of broken china were glowing from the sunshine, she jumped out of bed in an ecstasy of delight.

“O, dear, dear!” she cried, “what if that man had taken away those? how I should have cried! But now he has, by taking the door, given the sun a chance to make them look more beautiful!”

Now she began to love the sun better than ever, for he had become one of the things which beautified her little home; and she always woke early, so as to meet his first look, when he came into the room.

Still it must be confessed that the absence of her door did at times make her poor home more desolate; when, for instance, the winds went mad, and the rain came down in torrents from the clouds, O, such a frolicking as there was down her large chimney, and out through the doorway! Then round and round the house they would run, chasing each other, now bursting into a boisterous mirth, now howling in low, dull tones, until in again at the door they swept, and up through the chimney.

In Maggie’s mind, the chimney and open doorway belonged especially to the winds. She always thought of them in connection, and, when they began their frolicking, she would seat herself in one corner, and listen. Sometimes it seemed as though the winds rushed at one another, one coming down the chimney, and the other in at the door; then, when they met, there was a kind of explosion, a thick, quick quarrel, and then they would draw off in merry laughter; then would Maggie clap her hands with glee, thinking it fine sport; but when a whole blast burst at once upon the house, and seemed desperately to struggle through every crevice, she would crouch with fear, and upbraid the winds with their sudden freaks.

There was one mystery which Maggie found herself unable to unravel; it was this: She felt perfectly certain the chimney was made for the winds to come down through, and still she knew it was intended for her to make a smoky kind of fire once in a while on its hearth, with which the winds quarrelled, and destroyed it. Here were two things irreconcilable. Often would she stand on the hearth, and look up the black throat of the chimney, wondering how this inconsistency happened, wishing again and again that the winds would like the fire, and let it burn well; but she never thought of asking them to desist. She looked upon their freaks as privileged.

To the dear Dove did Maggie always turn for comfort and relief. Its love was a guarantee of her mother’s, and, as often as she looked upon and held it to her heart, so often did she feel sure that one day she would feel the pressure of her mother’s hand upon her head.

Once, when Maggie was talking to the Dove, and thinking of her mother, it came into her head to begin that journey to the Great King’s palace. “Why not?” said she; “why do I live here? The cold winter is coming, and my door is gone, and the sun already gives me warning that he shall not look in at the door as usual; the neighbors will be colder than ever, and some of them will quite freeze. I’ve a mind to go away. What do you think, Dovey?”

The Dove nestled close to her heart, and cooed joyfully.

“Would you like it? Well, I don’t know but I had better start. But I should have to leave the house, and that would be rather bad, and the chimney where the winds play. I think it would seem lonesome for them, and I don’t know as they would like it, for there would be no one to listen to them; still I do want to go, and I think I’d better.”

“I’m sure,” said Maggie, after some pause, during which she lovingly caressed the Dove’s head, “I’m sure I don’t see why I didn’t go before. I don’t know why I should have lived here so long alone. I can take some of the best china, and leave all the rest. Perhaps some little child may like to live here after I am gone, and watch the winds as I have done; but I do hope they won’t frighten her at first, or she will want to go away.”

Maggie was an expeditious child, and when she had decided to do something, she went at once about accomplishing it. So she left the door-step on which she had been sitting, and went in the house, to see what she wanted to take; and, as she had so few things, the preparations were not long, but she soon found herself with her blanket pinned over her head, ready to start.

’Tis true a few tears came into her eyes as she bid farewell to the bed which had been her shelter against every unpleasant sight and sound; but when she turned to the chimney, and some perplexing thought of the quarrels of the wind and the fire came over her, she rather rejoiced she would soon be away from it, where this one mystery of their disagreement should never again trouble her.

Laying the white Dove in her bosom, she turned from the house, and so beheld herself fairly launched on her journey.

A little while she found it pleasant; the road was straight, and lined with flowers; the Dove raised his head, and looked in Maggie’s eyes with delight.

But soon she came to a place where two roads met, forming the one she had been travelling. Here was a perplexity: which should she take which would lead her where she wanted to go?

There was a house close by; so she stepped up to the door of it, and knocked. A lady, who was very pretty to look at, and who wore a very rich dress, opened the door; but just at the moment when Maggie asked, “Will you tell me which road leads to the palace of the Great King?” that same terrible cold wind came round and blew directly into the lady’s mouth, so that she replied, “I know nothing about it, and very much doubt if there be any Great King at all;” and then she shut the door in great haste, leaving poor Maggie in much distress and doubt.

She was astonished at the woman’s words, and wondered why she shut the door so soon; for, if she had not, she would have told her about the King; how she was sure he was alive, and had a great palace. And, too, she could have told her, his servant had come once and taken her mother with him, and she could never forget him; he had been dressed in black, but on his head he wore a crown of the most glorious stars, and their brightness had filled the little house with holy light, so that, even after he had departed, it still lingered around.

She thought some of knocking again and telling the poor lady, for she thought it was sad enough not to know about the Great King; but, though she knocked a long time, no one came to the door, and, finally, she was obliged to leave the steps of the house and gather some directions else-where.

One of the roads seemed cold, and looked narrow, and Maggie, who had suffered so much from the cold, turned from it with a shudder towards the other, which looked much gayer, and many more people walked in it; but the Dove looked anxiously towards the narrow one, which grieved Maggie, and made her cry out, “O, Dovey, Dovey! how can you love the cold so well, or ask me to go where it is? Let us rather walk this way a little, and do you not see there are plenty of cross-roads? so, if we wish, we can go on to that narrow road at any time.”

So, notwithstanding the Dove’s remonstrances, Maggie entered this road, and found the air so pleasant and warm, that she liked nothing better than to walk in it.

She saw a great many people here; but they took no notice of the little girl, who walked along so quietly, with her Dove in her bosom, and the bits of china in her pocket. But, if they did not notice her, she noticed them well, and thought them strange enough.

To her surprise she found the air, which had at first seemed so warm, began to grow cold, and more like the air about the old house; and, shivering with cold, and seeing the people about her wearing large cloaks, it was quite natural she should ask them to let her in beneath the warm folds of them. To her civil request some of them paid no attention; others looked at her in wonder, and some were so rude as to speak cruel words to her, and bid her not dare speak to them again.

So Maggie saw them walk on, wrapped in their warm cloaks, and complained not. Indeed, she had lived too long in the little house without a door, not to be able to bear the cold bravely only she could not help wishing sometimes that she had the bed with her, that she might jump in between its clothes and warm herself a while; but she was patient, remembering that she was journeying towards the Great King’s palace, where her mother lived. Suddenly it occurred to her that the road to the Great King’s palace lay through a remarkably cold country, and that the people who were travelling thither seemed in no haste, for they often sat down by the road-side and played; and some even went back, instead of forward, while all those little side-roads, which she thought she had seen before, had vanished. So, one day, she said to one of the people who sat down:

“Why do you not hasten that you may see the Great King?”

“The Great King, indeed!” he said whom she had addressed. “I am in no hurry to see him.”

And others intimated as much as the lady long ago had said, that they themselves doubted very much if there were any Great King at all.

“What shall I do?” cried Maggie. “I cannot be in the right way. O, how shall I get to the Great King’s palace!” And, upon this, the Dove rose up from Maggie’s bosom, and turned backwards whither they had come. Though long and dreary seemed the cold road she must retrace, yet, such was her confidence in the Dove, she turned very gladly; and though not one of those people had cared for Maggie before, now they clustered around her, begging her not to leave them, and seeking to draw her away from her purpose. And when she saw how they seemed to love her, and feel sorrow at her going, she said to them:

“I am grieved to leave you, since you have just begun to love me; but I promised my mother I would go to the Great King’s palace, and I must go where Dovey leads me.”

“How silly to mind a bird!” cried one; and, picking up a stone, he hurled it at the Dove, who was hovering in the air, and broke its wing, so it could not fly.

Then, indeed, it seemed as though her grief was very great, and she could not help wishing she were already in the Great King’s palace, or that he would send his servant for her, who was dressed in the black robe, and wore the crown of stars. She often saw this servant now; he came to bear many away; but the crown of stars was not on his brow, and his face shed no light around, only gloom.

Well, Maggie was obliged to stop and bind up the Dove’s wing, and tend it a little before she could proceed on her journey. All delay was unwelcome to her; for, as the journeying thus far had been in pain, the true journey was still to begin. She was so hungry and thirsty, too! So it seemed impossible she could proceed when once she had started forward. There was no one to give her a crust of bread, or offer her a cup of cold water; nevertheless, she wouldn’t tell the poor Dove, who was moaning with pain, for she thought, and well enough, that he had as much of his own trouble as he could well endure.

She had another trouble, too; there were some people whom she could not think desired to go away from the King’s palace, and so she would tell them how they were going altogether in the wrong path; but they would either laugh or stare at her in wonder. Then she would almost have stood weeping in the road at their strange conduct, but the Dove would incessantly warn her to go on. At last, between grief and hunger, she fell sick, and thought she should die there, without ever seeing her mother or the Great King. But, lo! a gentle being, clothed in a white, spotless garment, came and put to her lips a cup of medicine, which she told Maggie, if she would but drink, would make her quite well again, and protect her against hunger and thirst for the rest of the journey. Upon this, Maggie drank it all but the dregs, and she found it so bitter that she thought it far worse than any cold she had ever endured. But, when the bright being saw she left the dregs in her cup, she was not satisfied, and bade her drink those, even with tears in her eyes. Maggie drank them as she bade her, and then the bright one vanished, leaving the child quite well and vigorous. The weariness vanished from her frame, the parching thirst from her mouth, and, what was yet more amazing, she found the little Dove quite well, and she stood with it in her arms before the two roads again.

So she commenced her journey upon the road she had so long ago rejected, and soon found that the snow vanished from the ground and shook itself from the tree-tops; the grass sprang up, the flowers played beneath her footsteps, and gay birds hopped among the boughs of the trees, making the air melodious with their songs; the brooklets ran murmuring by the road-side, and Maggie’s Dove cooed with joy.

O, Maggie knew this was the road leading to the palace of the Great King the very one her mother had travelled the road, too, which she had been told did not exist! She met many children here, who sought the same she did; and they talked with Maggie, and she loved them, and with them thanked the King who had made for them such a lovely road to his palace.

At last, one day, there came the same servant who had carried away her brother, and gently, softly, took her in his arms. So often had she thought of his coming that she felt no kind of fear. He told her that the Great King wanted her, and that her mother was all ready to receive her. O, how her heart leaped at this, to hear a real word from her mother, and to think the Great King wanted her! As she lay in his arms, the servant, who wore on his head his bright stars, kissed her eyes and her brow. He carried her a long distance, sped through many a long, dark valley, and then they came out upon a bright shore, where were many people dressed in shining clothes.

Maggie looked at herself, and saw, with amazement, that she too was dressed likewise, and that the servant who had brought her hither had no longer a black robe, but a silver one, which sparkled so, Maggie was scarce able to look upon it. She had soon crossed the sea, and then her mother caught her in her arms, and wept for joy.

“O, Maggie, Maggie!” she said; “I have watched your journey all along, and my sorrow was so deep when I saw you mistake the roads. It was I whom the Great King sent when you was sick, that I might bear his love to you, and make you well. Come, now, and go with me before his throne.”

Upon this they joined the crowd who were entering the palace; but we cannot enter it, we must first finish our journey.