Rosamond, a little girl about seven years of age, was walking with her mother in the streets of London. As she passed along she looked in at the windows of several shops, and saw a great variety of different sorts of things, of which she did not know the use or even the names. She wished to stop to look at them, but there was a great number of people in the streets, and a great many carts, carriages, and wheelbarrows, and she was afraid to let go her mother's hand.
'Oh, mother, how happy I should be,' she said, as she passed a toy-shop, 'if I had all these pretty things!'
'What, all! Do you wish for them all, Rosamond?'
'Yes, mother, all.'
As she spoke they came to a milliner's shop, the windows of which were decorated with ribands and lace and festoons of artificial flowers.
'Oh mother, what beautiful roses! Won't you buy some of them?'
'No, my dear.'
'Why?'
'Because I don't want them, my dear.'
They went a little farther, and came to another shop, which caught Rosamond's eye. It was a jeweller's shop, and in it were a great many pretty baubles, ranged in drawers behind glass.