Then a loving hand is laid on us: 'Little one, you cannot go,' they say, 'your little face will burn, and your nice white dress be spoiled.' We feel it must be for our good, it is so lovingly said: but we cannot understand; and we kneel still with one little cheek wistfully pressed against the pane.

Afterwards we go and thread blue beads, and make a string for our neck; and we go and stand before the glass.

We see the complexion we were not to spoil, and the white frock, and we look into our own great eyes.

Then the curse begins to act on us.

It finishes its work when we are grown women, who no more look out wistfully at a more healthy life; we are contented.