blew a farewell kiss to the horses and skipped away
across the grass among the gold-hearted, moonfaced daisies, and the
black-eyed poppies in their scarlet hoods.

There were no other children to be seen, but Hetty made herself happy
without them. A large butterfly fluttered past her, almost brushing her
cheek, and Hetty threw back her curly head and gazed at its beauty in
astonishment. It was splendid with scarlet and brown and gold, and
Hetty, after a pause of delighted surprise, dashed forward with both her
little fat arms extended to capture it. It slipped through her fingers;
but just as she was pulling down her baby lips to cry, a flock of white
and blue butterflies swept across her eyes, and made her laugh again as
she pursued them in their turn.

At last she stumbled into a damp hollow place where a band of golden
irises stood among their tall shafts of green like royal ladies
surrounded by warriors. Hetty caught sight of the yellow wing-like
petals of the flag-lilies and grasped them with both hands. Alas! they
were not alive, but pinned to the earth by their strong stems. The
butterflies were gone, the flowers were not living. The little girl
plucked the lilies and tried to make them fly, but their heads fell
heavily to the ground.

A big plough-boy came across the downs, and he said as he passed Hetty,

"What are you picking the heads off the flowers for, you young one?"

"Why won't they fly like the butterflies?" asked Hetty.

"Because they were made to grow."

"Why can't I fly, too?"

"Because you were made to run."

When Hetty went into the school she had a scratch from a briar all
across her cheek.

"You are quite late, Hetty Gray," said the schoolmistress. "And what
have you been doing to scratch your face?"

"I was trying to make the flowers fly," said Hetty; and then she was put
to stand in the corner in disgrace with her face to the wall.

CHAPTER II.

UNDER THE HORSES' FEET.

Mrs. Kane's cottage stood on a pretty bend of one of the village roads,
and belonged to an irregular cluster of little houses with red gables
and green palings. It was among the poorest dwellings in Wavertree, but
was neat and clean. The garden was in good order, and a white climbing
rose grew round the door, that sweet old-fashioned rose with its
delicious scent which makes the air delightful wherever it blows.

The cottage door stood open, and the afternoon sunlight fell across the
old red tiles of t