Tilderee did not mean to be disobedient: she had no intention of
running away; but it was so easy to forget that she had passed the
bounds which love had set for her, when the May breezes, like eager
playmates, seemed to beset her to frolic with them, catching at her
frock, tip-tilting her pretty print sunbonnet (the one with the tiny
pink roses scattered over a blue ground), ruffling her chestnut curls,
and whisking her little plaid shawl awry. A patch of yellow wild
flowers by the way appeared all at once endowed with wings, as from
their midst arose a flight of golden butterflies. What fun to chase
them! Fudge thought so too, and a merry pursuit followed. Tired and
out of breath, Tilderee paused at last. Fudge returned with a bound to
her side, and stood panting and wagging his tail, as if to ask: "Well,
what shall we play next?" They were now half a mile from home, but
neither turned to look back.
"Fudge, I'm going to pick a lovely bouquet for mother," Tilderee
confided to him, patting his shaggy head. He sniffed his approval, and
trotted after her as she flitted hither and thither culling the bright
blossoms.
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