It was New Year's Eve, and it was of this that she thought.
In a corner formed by two houses, one of which projected beyond the other, she sat down, drawing her little feet close under her, but in vain - she could not warm them.
She dared not go home, she had sold no matches, earned not a single penny, and perhaps her father would beat her.
Besides her home was almost as cold as the street - it was an attic; and although the larger of the many chinks in the roof were stopped up with straw and rags, the wind and snow often came through.
Her hands were nearly dead with cold; one little match from her bundle would warm them, perhaps, if she dare light it.
She drew one out, and struck it against the wall.
Bravo! it was a bright, warm flame, and she held her hands over it.
It was quite an illumination for that poor little girl - nay, call it rather a magic taper - for it seemed to her as though she were sitting before a large iron stove with brass ornaments, so beautifully blazed the fire within! The child stretched out her feet to warm them also.
Alas! in an instant the flame had died away, the stove vanished, the little girl sat cold and comfortless, with the burnt match in her hand.
A second match was struck against the wall.