My reputation was that of a very brave little girl; but when I
opened my hand and saw that broken butterfly, and my down-painted
fingers, I was never more afraid in my life. I screamed aloud in
panic, and ran for my mother with all my might. Heartbroken, I could
not control my voice to explain as I threw myself on her couch, and
before I knew what they were doing, I was surrounded by sisters
and the cook with hot water, bandages and camphor.
My mother clasped me in her arms, and rocked me on her breast.
"There, there, my poor child," she said, "I know it hurts dreadfully!'
And to the cook she commanded, "Pour on camphor quickly! She is
half killed, or she never would come to me like this." I found
my voice. "Camphor won't do any good," I wailed. "It was the most
beautiful butterfly, and I've broken it all to pieces. It must
have taken God hours studying how to make it different from all
the others, and I know He never will forgive me!' I began sobbing
worse than ever. The cook on her knees before me sat on her
heels suddenly.
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