Ingrid, gathering all her courage, explained her plight: the lost sheep, the empty pen, and her long journey across the Ice Bridge. The North Wind listened patiently, his icy beard shimmering. When she finished, a sigh, like a gentle winter breeze, escaped him. 'Ah, yes,' he rumbled. 'My playful gusts do sometimes carry things further than intended. Your little sheep are quite safe, though very far away, playing amongst the frosty fjords.'
'Will you help me bring them home?' Ingrid asked, her blue eyes pleading. The North Wind looked at her, then out at the swirling clouds he was shaping. 'I am a busy fellow,' he said. 'And helping mortals is not usually my way. But you have traveled far and shown great bravery. I will help you, little one, if you can answer a riddle, a riddle of the frost.'
Ingrid nodded, her heart thumping with hope. 'I will try my best, mighty Wind!'
'Very well,' said the North Wind, and with a puff, a thousand tiny, sparkling snowflakes danced in the air around them, each one perfect and unique, glimmering like miniature jewels. 'Tell me, little Ingrid, which of these countless snowflakes, endlessly falling, endlessly unique, is the most beautiful of them all?'