“Did you never see me before, Rosamond?” she asked.

“No, never,” answered the princess.  “I never saw any thing half so lovely.”

“Look at me,” said the child.

And as Rosamond looked, the child began, like the flower, to grow larger.  Quickly through every gradation of growth she passed, until she stood before her a woman perfectly beautiful, neither old nor young; for hers was the old age of everlasting youth.

Rosamond was utterly enchanted, and stood gazing without word or movement until she could endure no more delight.  Then her mind collapsed to the thought—­had the pony grown too?  She glanced round.  There was no pony, no grass, no flowers, no bright-birded forest—­but the cottage of the wise woman—­and before her, on the hearth of it, the goddess-child, the only thing unchanged.

She gasped with astonishment.

“You must set out for your father’s palace immediately,” said the lady.

“But where is the wise woman?” asked Rosamond, looking all about.

“Here,” said the lady.

And Rosamond, looking again, saw the wise woman, folded as usual in her long dark cloak.

“And it was you all the time?” she cried in delight, and kneeled before her, burying her face in her garments.

“It always is me, all the time,” said the wise woman, smiling.

“But which is the real you?” asked Rosamond; “this or that?”

“Or a thousand others?” returned the wise woman.  “But the one you have just seen is the likest to the real me that you are able to see just yet—­but—.  And that me you could not have seen a little while ago.—­But, my darling child,” she went on, lifting her up and clasping her to her bosom, “you must not think, because you have seen me once, that therefore you are capable of seeing me at all times.  No; there are many things in you yet that must be changed before that can be.  Now, however, you will seek me.  Every time you feel you want me, that is a sign I am wanting you.  There are yet many rooms in my house you may have to go through; but when you need no more of them, then you will be able to throw flowers like the little girl you saw in the forest.”

The princess gave a sigh.

“Do not think,” the wise woman went on, “that the things you have seen in my house are mere empty shows.  You do not know, you cannot yet think, how living and true they are.—­Now you must go.”

She led her once more into the great hall, and there showed her the picture of her father’s capital, and his palace with the brazen gates.

“There is your home,” she said.  “Go to it.”

The princess understood, and a flush of shame rose to her forehead.  She turned to the wise woman and said: 

“Will you forgive all my naughtiness, and all the trouble I have given you?”

“If I had not forgiven you, I would never have taken the trouble to punish you.  If I had not loved you, do you think I would have carried you away in my cloak?”