Master Compton opened the iron gate, and the world was all before him where to choose.
He chose one of those yellow stripes that had so attracted him. Horror! it was all buttercups and deil a cowslip.
Nevertheless, pursuing his researches, he found plenty of that delightful flower scattered about the meadow in thinner patches; and he gathered a double handful and dirtied his knees.
Returning, thus laden, from his first excursion, he was accosted by a fluty voice.
“Little boy!”
He looked up, and saw a girl standing on the lower bar of a little wooden gate painted white, looking over.
“Please bring me my ball,” said she, pathetically.
Compton looked about; and saw a soft ball of many colors lying near.
He put down his cowslips gravely, and, brought her the ball. He gave it her with a blush, because she was a strange girl; and she blushed a little, because he did.
He returned to his cowslips.