"Come back and play with me!" called the little Rabbit. "Oh, do come
back! I know I am Real!"

But there was no answer, only the little ants ran to and fro, and the
bracken swayed gently where the two strangers had passed. The
Velveteen Rabbit was all alone.

"Oh, dear!" he thought. "Why did they run away like that? Why couldn't
they stop and talk to me?"

For a long time he lay very still, watching the bracken, and hoping
that they would come back. But they never returned, and presently the
sun sank lower and the little white moths fluttered out, and the Boy
came and carried him home.


Weeks passed, and the little Rabbit grew very old and shabby, but the
Boy loved him just as much. He loved him so hard that he loved all his
whiskers off, and the pink lining to his ears turned grey, and his
brown spots faded. He even began to lose his shape, and he scarcely
looked like a rabbit any more, except to the Boy. To him he was always
beautiful, and that was all that the little Rabbit cared about. He
didn't mind how he looked to other people, because the nursery magic
had made him Real, and when you are Real shabbiness doesn't matter.

And then, one day, the Boy was ill.

His face grew very flushed, and he talked in his sleep, and his little
body was so hot that it burned the Rabbit when he held him close.