The Little White Horse

by Elizabeth Goudge

‘I’ll always be safe when I’m wearing this habit,’ she thought. ‘People are always safe in their mother’s arms.’

They had no leaves as yet, but the buds were swelling, and there seemed a mist of pale colour among their branches – amethyst and chrome and rose and blue, all melting into each other like the colours of a rainbow that shines for a moment through the clouds and then changes its mind and goes away again.