Big Ben led the little maid outside the forge, and said, “Now run away and play with the other children”; and then he went back to set about the shoeing of John Kane’s mighty cart-horses, or rather the cart-horses of Mr. Enderby of Wavertree Hall.

Little Hetty, thus expelled, dared not return to the forge, but she walked backwards down the road, gazing at the horses as long as she could see them.  She loved the great handsome brutes, and if she had had her will would have been sitting on one of their backs with her arms around his neck.  Coming to a turn of the road from which a path led on to an open down, she 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.