“Dear princess!” said the little girl, “the flowers will not always wither at your touch. Try now—only do not pluck it. Flowers ought never to be plucked except to give away. Touch it gently.”
A silvery flower, something like a snow-drop, grew just within her reach. Timidly she stretched out her hand and touched it. The flower trembled, but neither shrank nor withered.
“Touch it again,” said the child.
It changed color a little, and Rosamond fancied it grew larger.
“Touch it again,” said the child.
It opened and grew until it was as large as a narcissus, and changed and deepened in color till it was a red glowing gold.
Rosamond gazed motionless. When the transfiguration of the flower was perfected, she sprang to her feet with clasped hands, but for very ecstasy of joy stood speechless, gazing at the child.
“Did you never see me before, Rosamond?” she asked.
“No, never,” answered the princess. “I never saw any thing half so lovely.”
“Look at me,” said the child.