Hetty caught sight of the yellow wing-like
petals of the flag-lilies and grasped them with both hands. Alas! they
were not alive, but pinned to the earth by their strong stems. The
butterflies were gone, the flowers were not living. The little girl
plucked the lilies and tried to make them fly, but their heads fell
heavily to the ground.
A big plough-boy came across the downs, and he said as he passed Hetty,
"What are you picking the heads off the flowers for, you young one?"
"Why won't they fly like the butterflies?" asked Hetty.
"Because they were made to grow."
"Why can't I fly, too?"
"Because you were made to run."
When Hetty went into the school she had a scratch from a briar all
across her cheek.
"You are quite late, Hetty Gray," said the schoolmistress. "And what
have you been doing to scratch your face?"
"I was trying to make the flowers fly," said Hetty; and then she was put
to stand in the corner in disgrace with her face to the wall.
CHAPTER II.
UNDER THE HORSES' FEET.
Mrs. Kane's cottage stood on a pretty bend of one of the village roads,
and belonged to an irregular cluster of little houses with red gables
and green palings.
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