“Hush!” whispered the springs.  “Her bed is empty.  Have n’t you noticed how little she sang lately?  The weeds must have fallen asleep and she has run away.  You know they always hindered her.”

They did not tell that they were too weak to feed the brook; so it had dried away.  And still the sun glared down, and the little breeze was dead, and the brook had disappeared; while there on the door-step sat Marie weeping big tears,—­for the little maid was always sad, and come when you would, there was Marie with her dark eyes filled and brimming over with the shining drops.

The beeches beckoned her from the garden; she saw them do it.  Their long branches waved to her to come, like inviting arms; and still weeping, she stole quietly away.

“Come,” whispered the gnarled apple-trees down in the orchard; and she threaded her way sadly among the trunks, while her tears fell splash, splash, on her white pinafore.

“Here!” gasped the meadow-grass; and she followed on, sobbing softly to herself, as she sat down where, days ago, the brook had merrily sung.

“Why do you grieve?” asked the pebbles; and she heard them and answered,—­

“Because I am so sad.  Things are never as I want them, and so I cry.  I am made to obey, and then, when the stars come out and I wish to stay up, I am sent to bed; and the next morning, when I am so sleepy I can hardly open my eyes, I am made to get up.  Oh, this is a very sad world!” And she wept afresh.

Then the flowers and the grasses and the pebbles, seeing her tears, all said at once:  “Would you like to stay here with us?  Then you could stay awake all night and gaze at the stars, and in the morning you need not get up.  You may lie in the brook’s empty bed, and you need never obey your parents any more.”

Marie was silent a moment, and then a hundred small voices said, “Do, oh, do!” And her tears fell faster and more fast, and larger and 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.