At last the plot of ground was all prepared, and considering it had been digged by a woman, it was not at all badly done. No one would have known the difference if they hadn’t been told, though afterwards they might have discovered the depth was not so great. However that may be, the seeds were sown in it, and began doubtless to do their own little bit of digging, and go down so far that no one could find them where they’d first been put. After the sowing came the time of waiting. There was much weeding, and more watering, for no drop of rain ever descended there, and all had to be carried from a stream near by.
Rosalie watched the ground impatiently to see when the first bright blade would appear, but though she waited one month, two, three, four, nothing at all except an occasional weed altered the surface of the ground. And her whole heart was buried in that little garden. It seemed as if it, too, must have taken root down there, away from the sunshine and the warmth.
And the waiting was far worse than the working, for after three months certainly something ought to have shown. But when it went on to four, five, nay, at last came out into six long months, and nothing yet had come to light, Rosalie went back into the little hut, and laid her head upon her arms upon the table, and cried from sheer disappointment and low spirits. For during this time of waiting and subsequent doubt no one had come to see her, no one at all, except the frog.
In this fit of depression, which was the first of its kind, the outcome of disappointment and hope deferred, the frog spoke.
“What is it, Rosalie? I’ve never seen you cry before.”
“I can’t stand it any longer, I know I can’t. I’ve waited for six months, with never a soul to speak to but you, and nothing has come up. It’s all a failure. My heart is as heavy as a stone. If it gets much worse it will break right in two. I know it will.”
“Where is your heart?”
“It should be in my body, but I believe I must have sown it along with the seeds in the garden, and it’s turning to stone while they’re rotting.”
Then the frog spoke rather shyly, as one who fears to be ridiculed, and is slightly apologetic.
“Perhaps the seeds have turned to—to—to—stone, too,” and it looked hard in the fire instead of at Rosalie.