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I wouldn't put it passed her sweatdrop

She sits down at the table and continued her story as she waited.
"The old widow hurriedly bundled up for the cold and went outside to find the source of the crying and discovered that it came from beneath the tree under which she had left the swaddled snowbaby the night before. Instead of a snowbaby, she found a real baby, white as snow with pink cheeks and nose, and crying so robustly that the sound filled the forest. Afraid that the child would freeze to death, she quickly brought him inside her cozy cottage, where her dog came to greet the amazing and curious bundle. As she wrapped the child in a much warmer shawl and sat near the fire, she noticed that the child had the blackest and roundest eyes that she had ever seen, and as large as coat buttons.
"Why, it is almost as if my snowbaby came to life," she remarked.
For a long time, she sat cooing and playing while the little boy kicked and waved his chubby white arms. Eventually, the child became fussy and the widow, thinking that he was hungry, gave him a rag soaked in warm milk to suck, but he waved it away and would not eat.
Then, thinking he must be tired, the woman began to sing an old lullaby to which she remembered only some of the words. Finally, the little child closed his strange black eyes and fell asleep in her arms. She did not want to wake him by getting up from her chair so she sat and watched him, and sat and smiled.
However, as the sun was beginning to dip, the child awoke and began to cry. Again the woman offered him the milk rag, but again, he refused to eat. Soon, the child began to cry and flail with such fervor that the widow became distressed. Putting her hand to his forehead, she found that he was as cold as the snow outside and her hand burned as she had laid it on a sheet of ice. Worried that he could still be so cold hours after sleeping by the fire, she wrapped him in another blanket and moved her chair closer to the fire, but the baby cried harder and louder than before and giant tears rolled down his flushed cheeks. The woman spent hours trying to calm the child, using every remedy she knew for fevers, but nothing worked. The dog whined as well, with her nose pressed on the woman's thigh as she also watched the baby with anxiety. The widow checked the child's temperature and, though he seemed warmer, if only a little, than before, his skin and wrappings were so damp with sweat that she could not imagine how he was not yet as dry as a seed.
The woman, not knowing what else to do and sure she could not make it as far as the village doctor at night and in the snow, cried and prayed that the fever would pass by morning. It seemed, if possible, that the baby was getting smaller, emaciated by fever and she became sure, listening to his thin and weak wailing, that the child would not live. Eventually, the baby fell asleep again, though he slept fitfully, and the widow watched him as long as she could to see if he was still breathing before she, as well, fell asleep. She was not awakened by crying, but by a coldness that had seeped into her body while she slept. Her skirt was dripping. The woman was surprised, and perhaps believing of the legend at last, to find herself cradling two soaked and swaddled shawls in her arms."

-- Lady Lazarus