Barnabetta had the two little girls again, one on either side of her, before the fire. She had plainly become their fast friend.
Barnabetta said, more cheerfully: “Toads are not always ugly. Didn’t you ever see a toad early in the mornin’—when the grass and everything is all sparklin’ with dew? Oh! I must tell you a story about that.”
“Do, Miss Barnabetta,” breathed Tess, eagerly.
“Oh! that will be lovely!” murmured Dot.
“Once upon a time a little brown toad—a very warty toad—lived in a little house he had scooped for himself in the dirt right under a rose tree. He was a very sensible, hard-workin’ toad, only he grieved because he was so ugly.
“He never would have known he was so ugly, for he had no mirror in his house, if it hadn’t been for the rose. But lookin’ up at the buddin’ rose, he saw how beautiful she was and knew that in contrast he was the very ugliest beast that moved upon the earth.”
“The poor thing!” murmured Tess, the tender-hearted.
“He near about worshipped that rose,” pursued Barnabetta, her own eyes brighter as the children followed her story breathlessly. “Every day he watched her unfold her petals more and more. He caught all the bugs and flies and ugly grubs he could to keep them from comin’ at the rose and doin’ her harm.
“Then came the mornin’,” said Barnabetta, “when the rose was fully unfolded. The dew overnight had bejeweled each petal and when the first rays of the sun hurried to kiss her, the dewdrops sparkled like all manner of gems and precious stones.
“‘Oh, see!’ sighed the poor toad, ‘how beautiful is the rose and how ugly I am.’