And as Rosamond looked, the child began, like the flower, to grow larger. Quickly through every gradation of growth she passed, until she stood before her a woman perfectly beautiful, neither old nor young; for hers was the old age of everlasting youth.
Rosamond was utterly enchanted, and stood gazing without word or movement until she could endure no more delight. Then her mind collapsed to the thought—had the pony grown too? She glanced round. There was no pony, no grass, no flowers, no bright-birded forest—but the cottage of the wise woman—and before her, on the hearth of it, the goddess-child, the only thing unchanged.
She gasped with astonishment.
“You must set out for your father’s palace immediately,” said the lady.
“But where is the wise woman?” asked Rosamond, looking all about.
“Here,” said the lady.
And Rosamond, looking again, saw the wise woman, folded as usual in her long dark cloak.
“And it was you all the time?” she cried in delight, and kneeled before her, burying her face in her garments.
“It always is me, all the time,” said the wise woman, smiling.
“But which is the real you?” asked Rosamond; “this or that?”