“Please, am I to keep it?”
“Always.”
“Oh, thank you, grandmother! It’s prettier than anything I ever saw, except those—of all colours—in your—Please, is that your crown?”
“Yes, it is my crown. The stone in your ring is of the same sort—only not so good. It has only red, but mine have all colours, you see.”
“Yes, grandmother. I will take such care of it! But—” she added, hesitating.
“But what?” asked her grandmother.
“What am I to say when Lootie asks me where I got it?”
“ You will ask her where you got it,” answered the lady smiling.
“I don’t see how I can do that.”
“You will, though.”
“Of course I will, if you say so. But, you know, I can’t pretend not to know.”
“Of course not. But don’t trouble yourself about it. You will see when the time comes.”
So saying, the lady turned, and threw the little ball into the rose fire.
“Oh, grandmother!” exclaimed Irene; “I thought you had spun it for me.”
“So I did, my child. And you’ve got it.”
“No; it’s burnt in the fire!”