They placed him on the table,
and there--no! What curious things may happen in the world. The Tin
Soldier was in the very room in which he had been before! he saw the
same children, and the same toys stood on the table; and there was the
pretty castle with the graceful little Dancer. She was still balancing
herself on one leg, and held the other extended in the air. She was
hardy too. That moved the Tin Soldier; he was very nearly weeping tin
tears, but that would not have been proper. He looked at her, but they
said nothing to each other.
Then one of the little boys took the Tin Soldier and flung him into
the stove. He gave no reason for doing this. It must have been the
fault of the Goblin in the snuff-box.
The Tin Soldier stood there quite illuminated, and felt a heat that
was terrible; but whether this heat proceeded from the real fire or
from love he did not know. The colors had quite gone off from him; but
whether that had happened on the journey, or had been caused by grief,
no one could say. He looked at the little lady, she looked at him, and
he felt that he was melting; but he still stood firm, shouldering
his musket. Then suddenly the door flew open, and the draught of air
caught the Dancer, and she flew like a sylph just into the stove to
the Tin Soldier, and flashed up in a flame, and she was gone.
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