When they returned at noon, granny was again absent. But there lay the flowers, their tender green leaves, with a few bright blossoms, drooping, scorching, dying in the noonday sun.
Rosebud bent over them, hoping some might be found which, if replanted, would yet live. But no, the scorching heat had done its work.
Sorrowfully then they gathered up the remains of the dear plants which had given them so much delight, and buried them, with some tears, in the same spot they had blessed with their short-lived beauty,—the spot now saddened by their cruel death.
Even their fear of the angry old woman could not prevent the children of the shore from gathering there when they knew what Myrtle and Rosebud were doing; and they looked so mournful when the flowers one after another were covered with the dark earth!
“The funeral of the flowers!” said one little child, sadly, as she smoothed the surface with her hand.
This same little child, during the afternoon, begged of a countryman seeds of pretty grasses, which were strewn thickly over the spot.
Even Bess and Judy were sorry for Rosebud. For as the sun warms the hard rock, and melts the cold ice, so had the sunshine of Rosebud’s sweet face warmed and melted their hearts. If you rudely strike a little bird, it will but droop its head; and, if you crush a flower, it will but wither and fade. So when these two girls gave to Rosebud spiteful words, or even blows, she did but droop her head and look sorrowful. For the love-flame had never yet grown dim in her heart. It burned clear and bright, purifying her whole nature.
And thus it came about that Bess and Judy were at last melted to kindness. They had long ceased to give spiteful words to one who never returned them, and would now as soon have thought of striking a bird or a flower as this loving, gentle child who had come among them.
