She heard the sound of galloping feet, and there was the pony, with the child seated betwixt his wings, coming straight on at full speed for where she lay.

“I don’t care,” she said.  “They may trample me under their feet if they like.  I am tired and sick of myself—­a creature at whose touch the flowers wither!”

On came the winged pony.  But while yet some distance off, he gave a great bound, spread out his living sails of blue, rose yards and yards above her in the air, and alighted as gently as a bird, just a few feet on the other side of her.  The child slipped down and came and kneeled over her.

“Did my pony hurt you?” she said.  “I am so sorry!”

“Yes, he hurt me,” answered the princess, “but not more than I deserved, for I took liberties with him, and he did not like it.”

“Oh, you dear!” said the little girl.  “I love you for talking so of my Peggy.  He is a good pony, though a little playful sometimes.  Would you like a ride upon him?”

“You darling beauty!” cried Rosamond, sobbing.  “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.