“It is only a butterfly,” urged the sprite.
Kitty looked up. Her guardian child was pale as a dying child, he who had been so rosy such a little while ago; and in that upward glance Kitty perceived that all around, the woodland creatures were gazing at her. The birds, the field-mice, the rabbits with flapping ears, the hares had stopped running to look, the squirrels chatting and cracking their nuts, the dragon-flies hung suspended about like animated jewels, green frogs, and toads with wonderful eyes, all were looking at her, but not as they had looked in Play-ground Land. In all their eyes, that had been so friendly and trustful, there was now a fear and a reproach.
“Are you the same Kitty whom we trusted?” they seemed to be saying. “Will you take one of our innocent, joyous lives, just for play?”
“No, I will not,” cried Kitty; and she let a tear drop upon the butterfly. And a low cry of joy burst from God’s lovely, helpless, wild creatures, and the forest trees stirred as if drawing a sigh of relief.
“Silly!” hissed the naughty sprite; and away scampered the strange little girl in a pout, and tinkling her golden bells.
But the guardian child, all rosy with gladness, laughed, and its laugh had the velvety note of the blackbird’s whistle; and again there sounded on Kitty’s ear that airy peal of Christmas bells.
But Kitty’s little heart was still sore with the reproach of the wild animals’ questioning eyes.
“They trusted me!” she sobbed, “and I would have killed one of them for play.”
“Who was that little girl who ran so fast?” she asked her guardian child when she once more found herself standing upon the narrow path following the star.
“Thoughtlessness,” he replied; “and I can answer for it, nothing runs so fast as that empty-headed creature can race along.”