“Don’t! don’t!” cried the child. “My flowers cannot live in your hands.”
Rosamond looked at the flower. It was withered already. She threw it from her, offended. The child rose, with difficulty keeping her lapful together, picked it up, carried it back, sat down again, spoke to it, kissed it, sang to it—oh! such a sweet, childish little song!—the princess never could recall a word of it—and threw it away. Up rose its little head, and there it was, busy growing again!
Rosamond’s bad temper soon gave way: the beauty and sweetness of the child had overcome it; and, anxious to make friends with her, she drew near, and said:
“Won’t you give me a little flower, please, you beautiful child?”
“There they are; they are all for you,” answered the child, pointing with her outstretched arm and forefinger all round.
“But you told me, a minute ago, not to touch them.”
“Yes, indeed, I did.”
“They can’t be mine, if I’m not to touch them.”
“If, to call them yours, you must kill them, then they are not yours, and never, never can be yours. They are nobody’s when they are dead.”
“But you don’t kill them.”
“I don’t pull them; I throw them away. I live them.”
“How is it that you make them grow?”
“I say, ‘You darling!’ and throw it away and there it is.”
“Where do you get them?”