Whene'er I take my walks about,
I like to see the roses out;
I like them yellow, white, and pink,
But crimson are the best, I think.
The butterfly——"
But we shall never know about the butterfly. It may be that Wiggs has lost us here a thought on lepidoptera which the world can ill spare; for she interrupted breathlessly.
"When did you write that?"
"I was just making it up when you came in, dear child. These thoughts often come to me as I walk up and down my beautiful garden. 'The butterfly——'"
But Wiggs had let go her hand and was running back to the Palace. She wanted to be alone to think this out.
What had happened? That it was truly a magic ring, as the fairy had told her, she had no doubt; that her wish was a bad one, that she had been bad enough to earn it, she was equally certain. What then had happened? There was only one answer to her question. The bad wish had been granted to someone else.
To whom? She had lent the ring to nobody. True, she had told the Princess all about it, but——
Suddenly she remembered. The Countess had had it in her hands for a moment. Yes, and she had sent her out of the room, and—
So many thoughts crowded into Wiggs's mind at this moment that she felt she must share them with somebody. She ran off to find the Princess.
