This turned out to be the bridegroom; and after a few more flourishes, and not a little pulling and hauling among the bridesmaids, the bride and the bridegroom stood up together, and looked silly and sheepish, as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths; and after listening awhile to an old droning-beetle, without hearing a word he said, they bowed and courtesied, and made some sort of a reply, nobody could guess what; and then forth stepped the master of ceremonies, a priggish-looking grasshopper, with straw-colored tights, and a fashionable coat, single-breasted, and so quakerish it set poor little Rosebud a-laughing, in spite of all she could do, every time she looked at his legs; and then! out ran the ten thousand trumpeting bumble-bees, and the katydid grew noisier than ever, and the cricket chirruped for joy, and the bridegroom touched the bride’s cheek, and pointed slyly toward a little heap of newly gathered roses and violets, piled up afar off, in a shadowy part of the cave, just underneath a trailing canopy of changeable moss; the bride blushed, and the fairies tittered, and little Rosebud turned away, and wished herself at home, and instantly the bride and the bridegroom vanished! and the ships and the fairies! and the lights and the music! and Rosebud found herself standing face to face with the little withered old woman, who was looking mournfully at the drooping forget-me-not.  The tears came into her eyes, and for the first time since the flower took root,—­for the very first time,—­she began to think of her mother, and of her promise to the fairy; and she stooped down, in an agony of terror and shame and self-reproach, to see how it fared with her forget-me-not.  Alas! it had already begun to droop and wither; and the leaves were changing color, and the blossoms were dropping off, and she knew that her mother was beginning to suffer.

“O that I had never seen the hateful flower!” cried Rosebud; and then instantly recollecting herself, she dropped upon her knees, and kissed it, and wept upon it, and the flower seemed refreshed by her tears; and when she stood up and looked into the face of the good little fairy, and saw her lips tremble, and the color change in her sweet mournful eyes, she felt as if she never should be happy again.

“Daughter of earth! child of the air!” said the fairy, “two more days remain to thee.  What wouldst thou have?”

“O nothing! nothing!  Let me but go back to my dear, dear mother, and I shall be so happy!”

“That cannot be.  These trials are to prepare thee for thy return to her.  Be patient, and take thy choice of these three things,—­a tournament, a coronation, or a ball!”

“Goody gracious! how I should like to see a coronation!” cried Rosebud; and then she recollected herself, and blushed and courtesied, and said, “if you please, ma’am.”

“Call me mother, my dear; in Fairy-land I am your mother.”

“Well, mother,” said Rosebud, the tears starting into her eyes, and her heart swelling, as she determined never to call her mamma, no, never!—­“well, mother, if you please, I would rather stay here and watch the flower:  I don’t want to see anything more in Fairy-land; I’ve had enough of such things to last me as long as I live.  But O, if I should happen to fall asleep!”