“You don’t mind me having such a pony?” said the child.
“What! mind it?” cried Rosamond, almost indignantly. Then remembering certain thoughts that had but a few moments before passed through her mind, she looked on the ground and was silent.
“You don’t mind it, then?” repeated the child.
“I am very glad there is such a you and such a pony, and that such a you has got such a pony,” said Rosamond, still looking on the ground. “But I do wish the flowers would not die when I touch them. I was cross to see you make them grow, but now I should be content if only I did not make them wither.”
As she spoke, she stroked the little girl’s bare feet, which were by her, half buried in the soft moss, and as she ended she laid her cheek on them and kissed them.
“Dear princess!” said the little girl, “the flowers will not always wither at your touch. Try now—only do not pluck it. Flowers ought never to be plucked except to give away. Touch it gently.”
A silvery flower, something like a snowdrop, grew just within her reach. Timidly she stretched out her hand and touched it. The flower trembled, but neither shrank nor withered.
“Touch it again,” said the child.
It changed color a little, and Rosamond fancied it grew larger.
“Touch it again,” said the child.
It opened and grew until it was as large as a narcissus, and changed and deepened in color till it was a red glowing gold.