"No, no; he is fit only for you. My clumsy body would hurt him,"
said Rosamond.
"You don't mind me having such a pony?" said the child.
"What! mind it?" cried Rosamond, almost indignantly. Then
remembering certain thoughts that had but a few moments before
passed through her mind, she looked on the ground and was silent.
"You don't mind it, then?" repeated the child.
"I am very glad there is such a you and such a pony, and that such a
you has got such a pony," said Rosamond, still looking on the
ground. "But I do wish the flowers would not die when I touch them.
I was cross to see you make them grow, but now I should be content
if only I did not make them wither."
As she spoke, she stroked the little girl's bare feet, which were by
her, half buried in the soft moss, and as she ended she laid her
cheek on them and kissed them.
"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.
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