larger, for she felt more abused than ever now the meadow had shown her
sympathy, as she thought. She kept dropping tears so quickly that by
and by even her sobbing could scarcely be heard for the splash, splash,
of the many drops that were falling on the white pebbles in the brook's
bed.

How they fell! The brown eyes grew dim, and Marie could not see. She
felt tiny hands pulling her down--down; and in a moment she had ceased
to be a little girl and had become a brook, while her weeping was the
murmur of little waves as they plashed against the stones.

Yes, it was true!

She need never go to sleep when the stars came out; she need never get
out of her bed in the morning,--how could she when the strong weeds
hindered her,--and how could a brook obey when people spoke?

And meanwhile the meadow grew gay again, for the brook cooled its
fever; and by and by the dandelions tied on their large, fluffy
nightcaps and disappeared, and the sun ceased to glare--for Marie was
gone from the door-step with her weeping, and he need not look down on
the ungrateful little maid who ought to have been so happy. The clouds
came back; and when they heard how the meadow had suffered they wept
for sympathy, and the underground springs grew strong, until one day
there was a great commotion in the meadow.

A little bird had told the whole story of Marie's woe to the breeze,
and he rose and sighed aloud; the trees tossed their arms about,
because it was so wicked in a little girl to be ungrateful. The
crickets said, "Tut, tut!" in a very snappy way; and at last the great