“Oh! something struck my heart and pricked me in the eye.”  The little girl fell upon his neck; he blinked his eyes.  No, there was nothing at all to be seen.

“I think it is gone,” said he; but it was not gone.  It was just one of those glass fragments which sprang from the mirror—­the magic mirror that we remember well, the ugly glass that made every great and good thing which was mirrored in it to seem small and mean, but in which the mean and the wicked things were brought out in relief, and every fault was noticeable at once.  Poor little Kay had also received a splinter just in his heart, and that will now soon become like a lump of ice.  It did not hurt him now, but the splinter was still there.

“Why do you cry?” he asked.  “You look ugly like that.  There’s nothing the matter with me.  Oh, fie!” he suddenly exclaimed, “that rose is worm-eaten, and this one is quite crooked.  After all, they’re ugly roses.  They’re like the box in they stand.”

And then he kicked the box with his foot, and tore both the roses off.

“Kay, what are you about?” cried the little girl.

And when he noticed her fright he tore off another rose, and then sprang in at his own window, away from pretty little Gerda.

When she afterward came with her picture book, he said it was only fit for babies in arms; and when his grandmother told stories he always came in with a but; and when he could manage it, he would get behind her, put on a pair of spectacles, and talk just as she did; he could do that very cleverly, and the people laughed at him.  Soon he could mimic the speech and the gait of everybody in the street.  Everything that was peculiar or ugly about people, Kay would imitate; and every one said, “That boy must certainly have a remarkable genius.”  But it was the glass that struck deep in his heart; so it happened that he even teased little Gerda, who loved him with all her heart.

His games now became quite different from what they were before; they became quite sensible.  One winter’s day when it snowed he came out with a great burning glass, held up the blue tail of his coat, and let the snowflakes fall upon it.

“Now look at the glass, Gerda,” said he.

And every flake of snow was magnified, and looked like a splendid flower, or a star with ten points—­it was beautiful to behold.

“See how clever that is,” said Kay.  “That’s much more interesting than real flowers; and there’s not a single fault in it—­they’re quite regular until they begin to melt.”

Soon after, Kay came in thick gloves, and with his sledge upon his back.  He called up to Gerda.  “I’ve got leave to go into the great square, where the other boys play;” and he was gone.