By and by she found a place where the ground was wet, near the edge of the pond, and she could go pat, pat with her feet, and make smooth, deep prints. This grew more and more pleasant the farther she went, till presently the water came lapping cool and clear over her feet. Yes, but just then a butterfly came, a bright yellow one, and she tried to catch it, and in trying tripped and fell her length in the pond. That was sad, indeed; and it was fortunate the milking was ended just at that time, for at first she meant to cry hard, and the only thing that stopped her was riding home on the dwarf's hump, dripping water all over his gray velvet clothes. He didn't care, he said, so long as she did not drip into the milk.
[CHAPTER VII.]
THE STORY.
"I aspect, Mark," said the child,—"do you like better I call you Mark all the time than dwarf? then I will. I do really aspect you'll have to get me a clean dress to put on."
She held up her frock, and the dwarf looked at it anxiously. It was certainly very dirty. The front was entirely covered with mud, and matters had not been improved by her scrubbing it with leaves that she pulled off the trees as they came along.
"Dear me, Snow-white!" said the dwarf. "That is pretty bad, isn't it?"
"Yes," said the child; "it is too bad! You'll have to get me another. What kind will you get?"
"Well," said the dwarf, slowly; "you see—I hardly—wait a minute, Snow-white."
He went into the house, and the child waited cheerfully, sitting in the root-seat. Of course he would find a dress; he had all the other things, and most prob'ly likely there was a box that had dresses and things in it. She hoped it would be blue, because she was tired of this pink one. There might be a hat, too; when you had that kind of box, it was just as easy to have everything as only something; a pink velvet hat with white feathers, like the lady in the circus. The child sighed comfortably, and folded her hands, and watched the robins pulling up worms on the green.
But the dwarf went into the bedroom, and began pulling out drawers and opening chests with a perplexed air. Piles of handkerchiefs, socks, underwear, all of the finest and best; gray suits like the one he had on—but never a sign of a blue dress. He took down a dressing-gown from a peg, and looked it over anxiously; it was of brown velvet, soft and comfortable-looking, but it had evidently been lived in a good deal, and it smelt of smoke; no, that would never do. He hung it up again, and looked about him helplessly.