obbing. "I do love you so, you
are so good. How did you become so sweet?"

"Would you like to ride my pony?" repeated the child, with a heavenly
smile in her eyes.

"No, no; he is fit only for you. My clumsy body would hurt him," said
Rosamond.

"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 snow-drop, 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.

Rosamond gazed motionless. When the transfiguration of the flower was
perfected, she sprang to her feet with clasped hands, but for very
ecstasy of joy stood speechless, gazing at the child.

"Did you never see me before, Rosamond?" she asked.

"No, never," answered the princess. "I never saw any thing half so
lovely."

"Look at me," said the child.

And as Rosamond looked, the child began, like the flower, to grow
larger. Quickly through every gradation of growth she passed, until she
stood before her a woman perfectly beautiful, neither old nor young;
for hers was the old age of everlasting youth.

Rosamond was utterly enchanted, and stood gazing without word or
movement until she could endure no more delight. Then her mind
collapsed to the thought--had the pony grown too? She glanc