upon one of her cast-away flowers and stooped to pick it up, as well she might where none grew save in her own longing.  But to her amazement she found, instead of a flower thrown away to wither, one fast rooted and quite at home.  She left it, and went to another; but it also was fast in the soil, and growing comfortably in the warm grass.  What could it mean?  One after another she tried, until at length she was satisfied that it was the same with every flower the little girl threw from her lap.

She watched then until she saw her throw one, and instantly bounded to the spot.  But the flower had been quicker than she:  there it grew, fast fixed in the earth, and, she thought, looked at her roguishly.  Something evil moved in her, and she plucked it.

“Don’t! don’t!” cried the child.  “My flowers cannot live in your hands.”

Rosamond looked at the flower.  It was withered already.  She threw it from her, offended.  The child rose, with difficulty keeping her lapful together, picked it up, carried it back, sat down again, spoke to it, kissed it, sang to it—­oh! such a sweet, childish little song!—­the princess never could recall a word of it—­and threw it away.  Up rose its little head, and there it was, busy growing again!

Rosamond’s bad temper soon gave way:  the beauty and sweetness of the child had overcome it; and, anxious to make friends with her, she drew near, and said: 

“Won’t you give me a little flower, please, you beautiful child?”

“There they are; they are all for you,” answered the child, pointing with her outstretched arm and forefinger all round.

“But you told me, a minute ago, not to touch them.”

“Yes, indeed, I did.”

“They can’t be mine, if I’m not to touch them.”

“If, to call them yours, you must kill them, then they are not yours, and never, never can be yours.  They are nobody’s when they are dead.”

“But you don’t kill them.”

“I don’t pull them; I throw them away.  I live them.”

“How is it that you make them grow?”

“I say, ‘You darling!’ and throw it away and there it is.”

“Where do you get them?”

“In my lap.”

“I wish you would let me throw one away.”

“Have you got any in your lap?  Let me see.”

“No; I have none.”

“Then you can’t throw one away, if you haven’t got one.”

“You are mocking me!” cried the princess.

“I am not mocking you,” said the child, looking her full in the face, with reproach in her large blue eyes.

“Oh, that’s where the flowers come from!” said the princess to herself, the moment she saw them, hardly knowing what she meant.

Then the child rose as if hurt, and quickly threw away all the flowers she had in her lap, but one by one, and without any sign of anger.  When they were all gone, she stood a moment, and then, in a kind of chanting cry, called, two or three times, “Peggy!  Peggy!  Peggy!”