The tin soldier stood all aglow and felt the terrible heat - but whether it was from the real fire or from love, he didn't know. His colors were all gone, but whether that had happened on the journey or from sorrow, no one could tell. He looked at the little maiden, she looked at him, and he felt he was melting. But still he stood steadfast and shouldered his gun. Then a door opened, the wind took the dancer, and like a sylphid she flew right into the tiled stove next to the tin soldier, blazed up, and was gone. Then the tin soldier melted to a clump, and when the maid took out the ashes the next day, she found him in the shape of a little tin heart. Of the dancer, on the other hand, only the spangle was left, and that was burned as black as coal.
-- Hans Christian Andersen
