And the Buttercup shone so gaily, and looked back at Gerda.  What song might the Buttercup sing?  It was not about Kay.

“In a little courtyard the clear sun shone warm on the first day of spring.  The sunbeams glided down the white wall of the neighboring house; close by grew the first yellow flower, glancing like gold in the bright sun’s ray.  The old grandmother sat out of doors in her chair; her granddaughter, a poor, handsome maid-servant, was coming home for a short visit.  She kissed her grandmother.  There was gold, heart’s gold, in that blessed kiss—­gold in the mouth, gold in the south, gold in the morning hour.  See, that’s my little story,” said the Buttercup.

“My poor old grandmother!” sighed Gerda.  “Yes, she is surely longing for me and grieving for me, just as she did for little Kay.  But I shall soon go home and take Kay with me.  There is no use of my asking the flowers; they know only their own song, and give me no information.”  And then she tied her little frock round her, that she might run the faster; but the Jonquil struck against her leg as she sprang over it, and she stopped to look at the tall yellow flower, and asked, “Do you, perhaps, know anything of little Kay?”

And she bent quite down to the flower, and what did it say?

“I can see myself!  I can see myself!” said the Jonquil.  “Oh! oh! how I smell!  Up in the little room in the gable stands a little dancing girl.  She stands sometimes on one foot, sometimes on both; she seems to tread on all the world.  She’s nothing but an ocular delusion:  she pours water out of a teapot on a bit of stuff—­it is her bodice.  ’Cleanliness is a fine thing,’ she says; her white frock hangs on a hook; it has been washed in the teapot too, and dried on the roof.  She puts it on and ties her saffron handkerchief round her neck, and the dress looks all the whiter.  Point your toes! look how she seems to stand on a stalk.  I can see myself!  I can see myself!”

“I don’t care at all about that,” said Gerda.  “You need not tell me that.”

And then she ran to the end of the garden.  The door was locked, but she pressed against the rusty lock, and it broke off, the door sprang open, and little Gerda ran with naked feet out into the wide world.  She looked back three times, but no one was there to pursue her.  At last she could run no longer, and seated herself on a great stone; and when she looked round the summer was over—­it was late in autumn.  One could not notice that in the beautiful garden, where there was always sunshine, and where the flowers of every season always bloomed.

“Alas! how I have loitered!” said little Gerda.  “Autumn has come.  I may not rest again.”

And she rose up to go on.  Oh! how sore and tired her little feet were.  All around it looked cold and bleak; the long willow leaves were quite yellow, and the dew fell down like water; one leaf after another dropped; only the sloe-thorn still bore fruit, but the sloes were sour, and set the teeth on edge.  Oh! how gray and gloomy it looked—­the wide world!