So at seven she was a wise little woman, and said to her nurse one day, “I do not care for pets any more:  they all grow up nasty.”

Was Solomon’s “All is vanity” truer?

With so much experience Nellie felt old, for life is not counted by years alone:  it is the loss of hope, the mistrust of appearance, the vanishing of illusion, that brings age.  A hopeful heart is young at seventy, and youth is past when hope is dead.  But, in spite of all, hope was not dead in the heart of the little maid, and though deceived she was quite ready to be deceived a second time, as was Solomon, and as we are all.

It was now that the girl began to be fond of flowers.  She made herself a bed for them in a sunny corner of the kitchen-garden, and transplanted daisy roots and spring-beauties, with other wood- and field-plants as they blossomed.  She watched the ferns unroll their worm-like fronds, made plays with the nodding violets, and ornamented her head with dandelion curls.  This was indeed a happy summer.  Her rambles were unlimited, and each day she was rewarded by new discoveries and delightful secrets—­how the May-apple is good to eat, that sassafras root makes tea, that birch bark is very like candy, though not so sweet, and slippery elm a feast.

Her new playmates were as lovely and perfect as she could desire. They did not “grow up nasty,” but in the autumn, alas! they died.

One day at the end of the Indian summer, after having wandered for hours searching for her favorites, she found them all withered.  The trees also looked forlorn, shivering in the chill air, with scarce a leaf to cover them:  the wind moaned, and the sky was gray instead of the bright summer blue.  The little one, tired and disappointed, touched by this mighty lesson of decay, threw herself on a friendly bank and wept.

It is true the beautiful face of Nature had grown sad each winter, and her flowers and lovely things had yearly passed away, but Nellie had not then loved them.

Here she was found by a boy rosy-cheeked and bright, who all his life had been loved and caressed to the same extent that Nellie had been neglected.  He lived beyond the forest, and had come this afternoon to look for walnuts.  Seeing the girl unhappy, he essayed some of the blandishing arts his mother had often lavished on him, speaking to her in a kindly tone and asking her why she cried.

The child looked up at the sound of this new voice, and her astonishment stopped her tears.  After gazing at him for some time with her eyes wide open, she remarked, wonderingly, “You are little, like me.”

“I am not very small,” replied the boy, straightening himself.

“Oh, but you are young and little,” she insisted.

“I am young, but not little.  Come stand up beside me.  See! you don’t more than reach my shoulder.”

“Shall you ever get bigger?”

“Of course I shall.”