“If I stay here longer, I shall be miserable, It is nothing better than

slavery. The old witch shows me horrible things in the day to set me

dreaming horrible things in the night. If I don’t run away, that

frightful blue prison and the disgusting girl will come back, and I

shall go out of my mind. How I do wish I could find the way to the good

king’s palace! I shall go and look at the picture again—if it be a

picture—as soon as I’ve got my clothes on. The work can wait. It’s not

my work. It’s the old witch’s; and she ought to do it herself.”

She jumped out of bed, and hurried on her clothes. There was no wise

woman to be seen; and she hastened into the hall. There was the

picture, with the marble palace, and the proclamation shining in

letters of gold upon its gates of brass. She stood before it, and gazed

and gazed; and all the time it kept growing upon her in some strange

way, until at last she was fully persuaded that it was no picture, but

a real city, square, and marble palace, seen through a framed opening

in the wall. She ran up to the frame, stepped over it, felt the wind

blow upon her cheek, heard the sound of a closing door behind her, and

was free. _Free_ was she, with that creature inside her?

The same moment a terrible storm of thunder and lightning, wind and

rain, came on. The uproar was appalling. Agnes threw herself upon the

ground, hid her face in her hands, and there lay until it was over. As

soon as she felt the sun shining on her, she rose. There was the city

far away on the horizon. Without once turning to take a farewell look

of the place she was leaving, she set off, as fast as her feet would

carry her, in the direction of the city. So eager was she, that again

and again she fell, but only to get up, and run on faster than before.

IX.

The shepherdess carried Rosamond home, gave her a warm bath in the tub

in which she washed her linen, made her some bread-and-milk, and after

she had eaten it, put her to bed in Agnes’s crib, where she slept all

the rest of that day and all the following night.

When at last she opened her eyes, it was to see around her a far poorer

cottage than the one she had left—very bare and uncomfortable indeed,

she might well have thought; but she had come through such troubles of

late, in the way of hunger and weariness and cold and fear, that she

was not altogether in her ordinary mood of fault-finding, and so was

able to lie enjoying the thought that at length she was safe, and going

to be fed and kept warm. The idea of doing any thing in return for

shelter and food and clothes, did not, however, even cross her mind.

But the shepherdess was one of that plentiful number who can be wiser

concerning other women’s children than concerning their own. Such will

often give you very tolerable hints as to how you ought to manage your

children, and will find fault neatly enough with the system you are

trying to carry out; but all their wisdom goes off in talking, and

there is none left for doing what they have themselves said. There is

one road talk never finds, and that is the way into the talker’s own

hands and feet. And such never seem to know themselves—not even when

they are reading about themselves in print. Still, not being specially

blinded in any direction but their own, they can sometimes even act

with a little sense towards children who are not theirs. They are

affected with a sort of blindness like that which renders some people

incapable of seeing, except sideways.

She came up to the bed, looked at the princess, and saw that she was

better. But she did not like her much. There was no mark of a princess

about her, and never had been since she began to run alone. True,

hunger had brought down her fat cheeks, but it had not turned down her

impudent nose, or driven the sullenness and greed from her mouth.

Nothing but the wise woman could do that—and not even she, without the

aid of the princess herself. So the shepherdess thought what a poor

substitute she had got for her own lovely Agnes—who was in fact equally

repulsive, only in a way to which she had got used; for the selfishness

in her love had blinded her to the thin pinched nose and the mean

self-satisfied mouth. It was well for the princess, though, sad as it

is to say, that the shepherdess did not take to her, for then she would

most likely have only done her harm instead of good.

“Now, my girl,” she said, “you must get up, and do something. We can’t

keep idle folk here.”

“I’m not a folk,” said Rosamond; “I’m a princess.”

“A pretty princess—with a nose like that! And all in rags too! If you

tell such stories, I shall soon let you know what I think of you.”

Rosamond then understood that the mere calling herself a princess,

without having any thing to show for it, was of no use. She obeyed and

rose, for she was hungry; but she had to sweep the floor ere she had

any thing to eat.

The shepherd came in to breakfast, and was kinder than his wife. He

took her up in his arms and would have kissed her; but she took it as

an insult from a man whose hands smelt of tar, and kicked and screamed

with rage. The poor man, finding he had made a mistake, set her down at

once. But to look at the two, one might well have judged it

condescension rather than rudeness in such a man to kiss such a child.

He was tall, and almost stately, with a thoughtful forehead, bright

eyes, eagle nose, and gentle mouth; while the princess was such as I

have described her.

Not content with being set down and let alone, she continued to storm

and scold at the shepherd, crying she was a princess, and would like to

know what right he had to touch her! But he only looked down upon her

from the height of his tall person with a benignant smile, regarding

her as a spoiled little ape whose mother had flattered her by calling

her a princess.

“Turn her out of doors, the ungrateful hussy!” cried his wife. “With

your bread and your milk inside her ugly body, this is what she gives

you for it! Troth, I’m paid for carrying home such an ill-bred tramp in

my arms! My own poor angel Agnes! As if that ill-tempered toad were one

hair like her!”

These words drove the princess beside herself; for those who are most

given to abuse can least endure it. With fists and feet and teeth, as

was her wont, she rushed at the shepherdess, whose hand was already

raised to deal her a sound box on the ear, when a better appointed

minister of vengeance suddenly showed himself. Bounding in at the

cottage-door came one of the sheep-dogs, who was called Prince, and

whom I shall not refer to with a _which_, because he was a very

superior animal indeed, even for a sheep-dog, which is the most

intelligent of dogs: he flew at the princess, knocked her down, and

commenced shaking her so violently as to tear her miserable clothes to

pieces. Used, however, to mouthing little lambs, he took care not to

hurt her much, though for her good he left her a blue nip or two by way

of letting her imagine what biting might be. His master, knowing he

would not injure her, thought it better not to call him off, and in

half a minute he left her of his own accord, and, casting a glance of

indignant rebuke behind him as he went, walked slowly to the hearth,

where he laid himself down with his tail toward her. She rose,

terrified almost to death, and would have crept again into Agnes’s crib

for refuge; but the shepherdess cried—

“Come, come, princess! I’ll have no skulking to bed in the good

daylight. Go and clean your master’s Sunday boots there.”

“I will not!” screamed the princess, and ran from the house.

“Prince!” cried the shepherdess, and up jumped the dog, and looked in

her face, wagging his bushy tail.

“Fetch her back,” she said, pointing to the door.

With two or three bounds Prince caught the princess, again threw her

down, and taking her by her clothes dragged her back into the cottage,

and dropped her at his mistress’ feet, where she lay like a bundle of

rags.

“Get up,” said the shepherdess.

Rosamond got up as pale as death.

“Go and clean the boots.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Go and try. There are the brushes, and yonder is the blacking-pot.”

Instructing her how to black boots, it came into the thought of the

shepherdess what a fine thing it would be if she could teach this

miserable little wretch, so forsaken and ill-bred, to be a good,

well-behaved, respectable child. She was hardly the woman to do it, but

every thing well meant is a help, and she had the wisdom to beg her

husband to place Prince under her orders for a while, and not take him

to the hill as usual, that he might help her in getting the princess

into order.

When the husband was gone, and his boots, with the aid of her own

finishing touches, at last quite respectably brushed, the shepherdess

told the princess that she might go and play for a while, only she must

not go out of sight of the cottage-door.

The princess went right gladly, with the firm intention, however, of

getting out of sight by slow degrees, and then at once taking to her

heels. But no sooner was she over the threshold than the shepherdess

said to the dog, “Watch her;” and out shot Prince.

The moment she saw him, Rosamond threw herself on her face, trembling

from head to foot. But the dog had no quarrel with her, and of the

violence against which he always felt bound to protest in dog fashion,

there was no sign in the prostrate shape before him; so he poked his

nose under her, turned her over, and began licking her face and hands.

When she saw that he meant to be friendly, her love for animals, which

had had no indulgence for a long time now, came wide awake, and in a

little while they were romping and rushing about, the best friends in

the world.

Having thus seen one enemy, as she thought, changed to a friend, she

began to resume her former plan, and crept cunningly farther and

farther. At length she came to a little hollow, and instantly rolled

down into it. Finding then that she was out of sight of the cottage,

she ran off at full speed.

But she had not gone more than a dozen paces, when she heard a growling

rush behind her, and the next instant was on the ground, with the dog

standing over her, showing his teeth, and flaming at her with his eyes.

She threw her arms round his neck, and immediately he licked her face,

and let her get up. But the moment she would have moved a step farther

from the cottage, there he was it front of her, growling, and showing

his teeth. She saw it was of no use, and went back with him.

Thus was the princess provided with a dog for a private tutor—just the

right sort for her.

Presently the shepherdess appeared at the door and called her. She

would have disregarded the summons, but Prince did his best to let her

know that, until she could obey herself, she must obey him. So she went

into the cottage, and there the shepherdess ordered her to peel the

potatoes for dinner. She sulked and refused. Here Prince could do

nothing to help his mistress, but she had not to go far to find another

ally.

“Very well, Miss Princess!” she said; “we shall soon see how you like

to go without when dinner-time comes.”

Now the princess had very little foresight, and the idea of future

hunger would have moved her little; but happily, from her game of romps

with Prince, she had begun to be hungry already, and so the threat had

force. She took the knife and began to peel the potatoes.

By slow degrees the princess improved a little. A few more outbreaks of

passion, and a few more savage attacks from Prince, and she had learned

to try to restrain herself when she felt the passion coming on; while a

few dinnerless afternoons entirely opened her eyes to the necessity of

working in order to eat. Prince was her first, and Hunger her second

dog-counsellor.

But a still better thing was that she soon grew very fond of Prince.

Towards the gaining of her affections, he had three advantages: first,

his nature was inferior to hers; next, he was a beast; and last, she

was afraid of him; for so spoiled was she that she could more easily

love what was below than what was above her, and a beast, than one of

her own kind, and indeed could hardly have ever come to love any thing

much that she had not first learned to fear, and the white teeth and

flaming eyes of the angry Prince were more terrible to her than any

thing had yet been, except those of the wolf, which she had now

forgotten. Then again, he was such a delightful playfellow, that so

long as she neither lost her temper, nor went against orders, she might

do almost any thing she pleased with him. In fact, such was his

influence upon her, that she who had scoffed at the wisest woman in the

whole world, and derided the wishes of her own father and mother, came

at length to regard this dog as a superior being, and to look up to him

as well as love him. And this was best of all.

The improvement upon her, in the course of a month, was plain. She had

quite ceased to go into passions, and had actually begun to take a

little interest in her work and try to do it well.

Still, the change was mostly an outside one. I do not mean that she was

pretending. Indeed she had never been given to pretence of any sort.

But the change was not in _her_, only in her mood. A second change of

circumstances would have soon brought a second change of behavior; and,

so long as that was possible, she continued the same sort of person she

had always been. But if she had not gained much, a trifle had been

gained for her: a little quietness and order of mind, and hence a

somewhat greater possibility of the first idea of right arising in it,

whereupon she would begin to see what a wretched creature she was, and

must continue until she herself was right.

Meantime the wise woman had been watching her when she least fancied

it, and taking note of the change that was passing upon her. Out of the

large eyes of a gentle sheep she had been watching her—a sheep that

puzzled the shepherd; for every now and then she would appear in his

flock, and he would catch sight of her two or three times in a day,

sometimes for days together, yet he never saw her when he looked for

her, and never when he counted the flock into the fold at night. He

knew she was not one of his; but where could she come from, and where

could she go to? For there was no other flock within many miles, and he

never could get near enough to her to see whether or not she was

marked. Nor was Prince of the least use to him for the unravelling of

the mystery; for although, as often as he told him to fetch the strange

sheep, he went bounding to her at once, it was only to lie down at her

feet.

At length, however, the wise woman had made up her mind, and after that

the strange sheep no longer troubled the shepherd.

As Rosamond improved, the shepherdess grew kinder. She gave her all

Agnes’s clothes, and began to treat her much more like a daughter.

Hence she had a great deal of liberty after the little work required of

her was over, and would often spend hours at a time with the shepherd,

watching the sheep and the dogs, and learning a little from seeing how

Prince, and the others as well, managed their charge—how they never

touched the sheep that did as they were told and turned when they were

bid, but jumped on a disobedient flock, and ran along their backs,

biting, and barking, and half choking themselves with mouthfuls of

their wool.

Then also she would play with the brooks, and learn their songs, and

build bridges over them. And sometimes she would be seized with such

delight of heart that she would spread out her arms to the wind, and go

rushing up the hill till her breath left her, when she would tumble

down in the heather, and lie there till it came back again.

A noticeable change had by this time passed also on her countenance.

Her coarse shapeless mouth had begun to show a glimmer of lines and

curves about it, and the fat had not returned with the roses to her

cheeks, so that her eyes looked larger than before; while, more

noteworthy still, the bridge of her nose had grown higher, so that it

was less of the impudent, insignificant thing inherited from a certain

great-great-great-grandmother, who had little else to leave her. For a

long time, it had fitted her very well, for it was just like her; but

now there was ground for alteration, and already the granny who gave it

her would not have recognized it. It was growing a little liker

Prince’s; and Prince’s was a long, perceptive, sagacious nose,—one that

was seldom mistaken.

One day about noon, while the sheep were mostly lying down, and the

shepherd, having left them to the care of the dogs, was himself

stretched under the shade of a rock a little way apart, and the

princess sat knitting, with Prince at her feet, lying in wait for a

snap at a great fly, for even he had his follies—Rosamond saw a poor

woman come toiling up the hill, but took little notice of her until she

was passing, a few yards off, when she heard her utter the dog’s name

in a low voice.

Immediately on the summons, Prince started up and followed her—with

hanging head, but gently-wagging tail. At first the princess thought he

was merely taking observations, and consulting with his nose whether

she was respectable or not, but she soon saw that he was following her

in meek submission. Then she sprung to her feet and cried, “Prince,

Prince!” But Prince only turned his head and gave her an odd look, as

if he were trying to smile, and could not. Then the princess grew

angry, and ran after him, shouting, “Prince, come here directly.” Again

Prince turned his head, but this time to growl and show his teeth.

The princess flew into one of her forgotten rages, and picking up a

stone, flung it at the woman. Prince turned and darted at her, with

fury in his eyes, and his white teeth gleaming. At the awful sight the

princess turned also, and would have fled, but he was upon her in a

moment, and threw her to the ground, and there she lay.

It was evening when she came to herself. A cool twilight wind, that

somehow seemed to come all the way from the stars, was blowing upon

her. The poor woman and Prince, the shepherd and his sheep, were all

gone, and she was left alone with the wind upon the heather.

She felt sad, weak, and, perhaps, for the first time in her life, a

little ashamed. The violence of which she had been guilty had vanished

from her spirit, and now lay in her memory with the calm morning behind

it, while in front the quiet dusky night was now closing in the loud

shame betwixt a double peace. Between the two her passion looked ugly.

It pained her to remember. She felt it was hateful, and _hers_.

But, alas, Prince was gone! That horrid woman had taken him away! The

fury rose again in her heart, and raged—until it came to her mind how

her dear Prince would have flown at her throat if he had seen her in

such a passion. The memory calmed her, and she rose and went home.

There, perhaps, she would find Prince, for surely he could never have

been such a silly dog as go away altogether with a strange woman!

She opened the door and went in. Dogs were asleep all about the

cottage, it seemed to her, but nowhere was Prince. She crept away to

her little bed, and cried herself asleep.

In the morning the shepherd and shepherdess were indeed glad to find

she had come home, for they thought she had run away.

“Where is Prince?” she cried, the moment she waked.

“His mistress has taken him,” answered the shepherd.

“Was that woman his mistress?”

“I fancy so. He followed her as if he had known her all his life. I am

very sorry to lose him, though.”

The poor woman had gone close past the rock where the shepherd lay. He

saw her coming, and thought of the strange sheep which had been feeding

beside him when he lay down. “Who can she be?” he said to himself; but

when he noted how Prince followed her, without even looking up at him

as he passed, he remembered how Prince had come to him. And this was

how: as he lay in bed one fierce winter morning, just about to rise, he

heard the voice of a woman call to him through the storm, “Shepherd, I

have brought you a dog. Be good to him. I will come again and fetch him

away.” He dressed as quickly as he could, and went to the door. It was

half snowed up, but on the top of the white mound before it stood

Prince. And now he had gone as mysteriously as he had come, and he felt

sad.

Rosamond was very sorry too, and hence when she saw the looks of the

shepherd and shepherdess, she was able to understand them. And she

tried for a while to behave better to them because of their sorrow. So

the loss of the dog brought them all nearer to each other.

X.

After the thunder-storm, Agnes did not meet with a single obstruction

or misadventure. Everybody was strangely polite, gave her whatever she

desired, and answered her questions, but asked none in return, and

looked all the time as if her departure would be a relief. They were

afraid, in fact, from her appearance, lest she should tell them that

she was lost, when they would be bound, on pain of public execution, to

take her to the palace.

But no sooner had she entered the city than she saw it would hardly do

to present herself as a lost child at the palace-gates; for how were

they to know that she was not an impostor, especially since she really

was one, having run away from the wise woman? So she wandered about

looking at every thing until she was tired, and bewildered by the noise

and confusion all around her. The wearier she got, the more was she

pushed in every direction. Having been used to a whole hill to wander

upon, she was very awkward in the crowded streets, and often on the

point of being run over by the horses, which seemed to her to be going

every way like a frightened flock. She spoke to several persons, but no

one stopped to answer her; and at length, her courage giving way, she

felt lost indeed, and began to cry. A soldier saw her, and asked what

was the matter.

“I’ve nowhere to go to,” she sobbed.

“Where’s your mother?” asked the soldier.

“I don’t know,” answered Agnes. “I was carried off by an old woman, who

then went away and left me. I don’t know where she is, or where I am

myself.”

“Come,” said the soldier, “this is a case for his Majesty.”

So saying, he took her by the hand, led her to the palace, and begged

an audience of the king and queen. The porter glanced at Agnes,

immediately admitted them, and showed them into a great splendid room,

where the king and queen sat every day to review lost children, in the

hope of one day thus finding their Rosamond. But they were by this time

beginning to get tired of it. The moment they cast their eyes upon

Agnes, the queen threw back her head, threw up her hands, and cried,

“What a miserable, conceited, white-faced little ape!” and the king

turned upon the soldier in wrath, and cried, forgetting his own decree,

“What do you mean by bringing such a dirty, vulgar-looking, pert

creature into my palace? The dullest soldier in my army could never for

a moment imagine a child like _that_, one hair’s-breadth like the

lovely angel we lost!”

“I humbly beg your Majesty’s pardon,” said the soldier, “but what was I

to do? There stands your Majesty’s proclamation in gold letters on the

brazen gates of the palace.”

“I shall have it taken down,” said the king. “Remove the child.”

“Please your Majesty, what am I to do with her?”

“Take her home with you.”

“I have six already, sire, and do not want her.”

“Then drop her where you picked her up.”

“If I do, sire, some one else will find her and bring her back to your

Majesties.”

“That will never do,” said the king. “I cannot bear to look at her.”

“For all her ugliness,” said the queen, “she is plainly lost, and so is

our Rosamond.”

“It may be only a pretence, to get into the palace,” said the king.

“Take her to the head scullion, soldier,” said the queen, “and tell her

to make her useful. If she should find out she has been pretending to

be lost, she must let me know.”

The soldier was so anxious to get rid of her, that he caught her up in

his arms, hurried her from the room, found his way to the scullery, and

gave her, trembling with fear, in charge to the head maid, with the

queen’s message.

As it was evident that the queen had no favor for her, the servants did

as they pleased with her, and often treated her harshly. Not one

amongst them liked her, nor was it any wonder, seeing that, with every

step she took from the wise woman’s house, she had grown more

contemptible, for she had grown more conceited. Every civil answer

given her, she attributed to the impression she made, not to the desire

to get rid of her; and every kindness, to approbation of her looks and

speech, instead of friendliness to a lonely child. Hence by this time

she was twice as odious as before; for whoever has had such severe

treatment as the wise woman gave her, and is not the better for it,

always grows worse than before. They drove her about, boxed her ears on

the smallest provocation, laid every thing to her charge, called her

all manner of contemptuous names, jeered and scoffed at her

awkwardnesses, and made her life so miserable that she was in a fair

way to forget every thing she had learned, and know nothing but how to

clean saucepans and kettles.

They would not have been so hard upon her, however, but for her

irritating behavior. She dared not refuse to do as she was told, but

she obeyed now with a pursed-up mouth, and now with a contemptuous

smile. The only thing that sustained her was her constant contriving

how to get out of the painful position in which she found herself.

There is but one true way, however, of getting out of any position we

may be in, and that is, to do the work of it so well that we grow fit

for a better: I need not say this was not the plan upon which Agnes was

cunning enough to fix.

She had soon learned from the talk around her the reason of the

proclamation which had brought her hither.

“Was the lost princess so very beautiful?” she said one day to the

youngest of her fellow-servants.

“Beautiful!” screamed the maid; “she was just the ugliest little toad

you ever set eyes upon.”

“What was she like?” asked Agnes.

“She was about your size, and quite as ugly, only not in the same way;

for she had red cheeks, and a cocked little nose, and the biggest,

ugliest mouth you ever saw.”

Agnes fell a-thinking.

“Is there a picture of her anywhere in the palace?” she asked.

“How should I know? You can ask a housemaid.”

Agnes soon learned that there was one, and contrived to get a peep of

it. Then she was certain of what she had suspected from the description

given of her, namely, that she was the same she had seen in the picture

at the wise woman’s house. The conclusion followed, that the lost

princess must be staying with her father and mother, for assuredly in

the picture she wore one of her frocks.

She went to the head scullion, and with humble manner, but proud heart,

begged her to procure for her the favor of a word with the queen.

“A likely thing indeed!” was the answer, accompanied by a resounding

box on the ear.

She tried the head cook next, but with no better success, and so was

driven to her meditations again, the result of which was that she began

to drop hints that she knew something about the princess. This came at

length to the queen’s ears, and she sent for her.

Absorbed in her own selfish ambitions, Agnes never thought of the risk

to which she was about to expose her parents, but told the queen that

in her wanderings she had caught sight of just such a lovely creature

as she described the princess, only dressed like a peasant—saying,

that, if the king would permit her to go and look for her, she had

little doubt of bringing her back safe and sound within a few weeks.

But although she spoke the truth, she had such a look of cunning on her

pinched face, that the queen could not possibly trust her, but believed

that she made the proposal merely to get away, and have money given her

for her journey. Still there was a chance, and she would not say any

thing until she had consulted the king.

Then they had Agnes up before the lord chancellor, who, after much

questioning of her, arrived at last, he thought, at some notion of the

part of the country described by her—that was, if she spoke the truth,

which, from her looks and behavior, he also considered entirely

doubtful. Thereupon she was ordered back to the kitchen, and a band of

soldiers, under a clever lawyer, sent out to search every foot of the

supposed region. They were commanded not to return until they brought

with them, bound hand and foot, such a shepherd pair as that of which

they received a full description.

And now Agnes was worse off than before. For to her other miseries was

added the fear of what would befall her when it was discovered that the

persons of whom they were in quest, and whom she was certain they must

find, were her own father and mother.

By this time the king and queen were so tired of seeing lost children,

genuine or pretended—for they cared for no child any longer than there

seemed a chance of its turning out their child—that with this new hope,

which, however poor and vague at first, soon began to grow upon such

imaginations as they had, they commanded the proclamation to be taken

down from the palace gates, and directed the various sentries to admit

no child whatever, lost or found, be the reason or pretence what it

might, until further orders.

“I’m sick of children!” said the king to his secretary, as he finished

dictating the direction.

XI.

After Prince was gone, the princess, by degrees, fell back into some of

her bad old ways, from which only the presence of the dog, not her own

betterment, had kept her. She never grew nearly so selfish again, but

she began to let her angry old self lift up its head once more, until

by and by she grew so bad that the shepherdess declared she should not

stop in the house a day longer, for she was quite unendurable.

“It is all very well for you, husband,” she said, “for you haven’t her

all day about you, and only see the best of her. But if you had her in

work instead of play hours, you would like her no better than I do. And

then it’s not her ugly passions only, but when she’s in one of her

tantrums, it’s impossible to get any work out of her. At such times

she’s just as obstinate as—as—as”—

She was going to say “as Agnes,” but the feelings of a mother overcame

her, and she could not utter the words.

“In fact,” she said instead, “she makes my life miserable.”

The shepherd felt he had no right to tell his wife she must submit to

have her life made miserable, and therefore, although he was really

much attached to Rosamond, he would not interfere; and the shepherdess

told her she must look out for another place.

The princess was, however, this much better than before, even in

respect of her passions, that they were not quite so bad, and after one

was over, she was really ashamed of it. But not once, ever since the

departure of Prince had she tried to check the rush of the evil temper

when it came upon her. She hated it when she was out of it, and that

was something; but while she was in it, she went full swing with it

wherever the prince of the power of it pleased to carry her. Nor was

this all: although she might by this time have known well enough that

as soon as she was out of it she was certain to be ashamed of it, she

would yet justify it to herself with twenty different arguments that

looked very good at the time, but would have looked very poor indeed

afterwards, if then she had ever remembered them.

She was not sorry to leave the shepherd’s cottage, for she felt certain

of soon finding her way back to her father and mother; and she would,

indeed, have set out long before, but that her foot had somehow got

hurt when Prince gave her his last admonition, and she had never since

been able for long walks, which she sometimes blamed as the cause of

her temper growing worse. But if people are good-tempered only when

they are comfortable, what thanks have they?—Her foot was now much

better; and as soon as the shepherdess had thus spoken, she resolved to

set out at once, and work or beg her way home. At the moment she was

quite unmindful of what she owed the good people, and, indeed, was as

yet incapable of understanding a tenth part of her obligation to them.

So she bade them good by without a tear, and limped her way down the

hill, leaving the shepherdess weeping, and the shepherd looking very

grave.

When she reached the valley she followed the course of the stream,

knowing only that it would lead her away from the hill where the sheep

fed, into richer lands where were farms and cattle. Rounding one of the

roots of the hill she saw before her a poor woman walking slowly along

the road with a burden of heather upon her back, and presently passed

her, but had gone only a few paces farther when she heard her calling

after her in a kind old voice—

“Your shoe-tie is loose, my child.”

But Rosamond was growing tired, for her foot had become painful, and so

she was cross, and neither returned answer, nor paid heed to the

warning. For when we are cross, all our other faults grow busy, and

poke up their ugly heads like maggots, and the princess’s old dislike

to doing any thing that came to her with the least air of advice about

it returned in full force.

“My child,” said the woman again, “if you don’t fasten your shoe-tie,

it will make you fall.”

“Mind your own business,” said Rosamond, without even turning her head,

and had not gone more than three steps when she fell flat on her face

on the path. She tried to get up, but the effort forced from her a

scream, for she had sprained the ankle of the foot that was already

lame.

The old woman was by her side instantly.

“Where are you hurt, child?” she asked, throwing down her burden and

kneeling beside her.

“Go away,” screamed Rosamond. “_You_ made me fall, you bad woman!”

The woman made no reply, but began to feel her joints, and soon

discovered the sprain. Then, in spite of Rosamond’s abuse, and the

violent pushes and even kicks she gave her, she took the hurt ankle in

her hands, and stroked and pressed it, gently kneading it, as it were,

with her thumbs, as if coaxing every particle of the muscles into its

right place. Nor had she done so long before Rosamond lay still. At

length she ceased, and said:—

“Now, my child, you may get up.”

“I can’t get up, and I’m not your child,” cried Rosamond. “Go away.”

Without another word the woman left her, took up her burden, and

continued her journey.

In a little while Rosamond tried to get up, and not only succeeded, but

found she could walk, and, indeed, presently discovered that her ankle

and foot also were now perfectly well.

“I wasn’t much hurt after all,” she said to herself, nor sent a single

grateful thought after the poor woman, whom she speedily passed once

more upon the road without even a greeting.

Late in the afternoon she came to a spot where the path divided into

two, and was taking the one she liked the look of better, when she

started at the sound of the poor woman’s voice, whom she thought she

had left far behind, again calling her. She looked round, and there she

was, toiling under her load of heather as before.

“You are taking the wrong turn, child.” she cried.

“How can you tell that?” said Rosamond. “You know nothing about where I

want to go.”

“I know that road will take you where you won’t want to go,” said the

woman.

“I shall know when I get there, then,” returned Rosamond, “and no

thanks to you.”

She set off running. The woman took the other path, and was soon out of

sight.

By and by, Rosamond found herself in the midst of a peat-moss—a flat,

lonely, dismal, black country. She thought, however, that the road

would soon lead her across to the other side of it among the farms, and

went on without anxiety. But the stream, which had hitherto been her

guide, had now vanished; and when it began to grow dark, Rosamond found

that she could no longer distinguish the track. She turned, therefore,

but only to find that the same darkness covered it behind as well as

before. Still she made the attempt to go back by keeping as direct a

line as she could, for the path was straight as an arrow. But she could

not see enough even to start her in a line, and she had not gone far

before she found herself hemmed in, apparently on every side, by

ditches and pools of black, dismal, slimy water. And now it was so dark

that she could see nothing more than the gleam of a bit of clear sky

now and then in the water. Again and again she stepped knee-deep in

black mud, and once tumbled down in the shallow edge of a terrible

pool; after which she gave up the attempt to escape the meshes of the

watery net, stood still, and began to cry bitterly, despairingly. She

saw now that her unreasonable anger had made her foolish as well as

rude, and felt that she was justly punished for her wickedness to the

poor woman who had been so friendly to her. What would Prince think of

her, if he knew? She cast herself on the ground, hungry, and cold, and

weary.

Presently, she thought she saw long creatures come heaving out of the

black pools. A toad jumped upon her, and she shrieked, and sprang to

her feet, and would have run away headlong, when she spied in the

distance a faint glimmer. She thought it was a Will-o’-the-wisp. What

could he be after? Was he looking for her? She dared not run, lest he

should see and pounce upon her. The light came nearer, and grew

brighter and larger. Plainly, the little fiend was looking for her—he

would torment her. After many twistings and turnings among the pools,

it came straight towards her, and she would have shrieked, but that

terror made her dumb.

It came nearer and nearer, and lo! it was borne by a dark figure, with

a burden on its back: it was the poor woman, and no demon, that was

looking for her! She gave a scream of joy, fell down weeping at her

feet, and clasped her knees. Then the poor woman threw away her burden,

laid down her lantern, took the princess up in her arms, folded her

cloak around her, and having taken up her lantern again, carried her

slowly and carefully through the midst of the black pools, winding

hither and thither. All night long she carried her thus, slowly and

wearily, until at length the darkness grew a little thinner, an

uncertain hint of light came from the east, and the poor woman,

stopping on the brow of a little hill, opened her cloak, and set the

princess down.

“I can carry you no farther,” she said. “Sit there on the grass till

the light comes. I will stand here by you.”

Rosamond had been asleep. Now she rubbed her eyes and looked, but it

was too dark to see any thing more than that there was a sky over her

head. Slowly the light grew, until she could see the form of the poor

woman standing in front of her; and as it went on growing, she began to

think she had seen her somewhere before, till all at once she thought

of the wise woman, and saw it must be she. Then she was so ashamed that

she bent down her head, and could look at her no longer. But the poor

woman spoke, and the voice was that of the wise woman, and every word

went deep into the heart of the princess.

“Rosamond,” she said, “all this time, ever since I carried you from

your father’s palace, I have been doing what I could to make you a

lovely creature: ask yourself how far I have succeeded.”

All her past story, since she found herself first under the wise

woman’s cloak, arose, and glided past the inner eyes of the princess,

and she saw, and in a measure understood, it all. But she sat with her

eyes on the ground, and made no sign.

Then said the wise woman:—

“Below there is the forest which surrounds my house. I am going home.

If you pledge to come there to me, I will help you, in a way I could

not do now, to be good and lovely. I will wait you there all day, but

if you start at once, you may be there long before noon. I shall have

your breakfast waiting for you. One thing more: the beasts have not yet

all gone home to their holes; but I give you my word, not one will

touch you so long as you keep coming nearer to my house.”

She ceased. Rosamond sat waiting to hear something more; but nothing

came. She looked up; she was alone.

Alone once more! Always being left alone, because she would not yield

to what was right! Oh, how safe she had felt under the wise woman’s

cloak! She had indeed been good to her, and she had in return behaved

like one of the hyenas of the awful wood! What a wonderful house it was

she lived in! And again all her own story came up into her brain from

her repentant heart.

“Why didn’t she take me with her?” she said. “I would have gone

gladly.” And she wept. But her own conscience told her that, in the

very middle of her shame and desire to be good, she had returned no

answer to the words of the wise woman; she had sat like a tree-stump,

and done nothing. She tried to say there was nothing to be done; but

she knew at once that she could have told the wise woman she had been

very wicked, and asked her to take her with her. Now there was nothing

to be done.

“Nothing to be done!” said her conscience. “Cannot you rise, and walk

down the hill, and through the wood?”

“But the wild beasts!”

“There it is! You don’t believe the wise woman yet! Did she not tell

you the beasts would not touch you?”

“But they are so horrid!”

“Yes, they are; but it would be far better to be eaten up alive by them

than live on—such a worthless creature as you are. Why, you’re not fit

to be thought about by any but bad ugly creatures.”

This was how herself talked to her.

XII.

All at once she jumped to her feet, and ran at full speed down the hill

and into the wood. She heard howlings and yellings on all sides of her,

but she ran straight on, as near as she could judge. Her spirits rose

as she ran. Suddenly she saw before her, in the dusk of the thick wood,

a group of some dozen wolves and hyenas, standing all together right in

her way, with their green eyes fixed upon her staring. She faltered one

step, then bethought her of what the wise woman had promised, and

keeping straight on, dashed right into the middle of them. They fled

howling, as if she had struck them with fire. She was no more afraid

after that, and ere the sun was up she was out of the wood and upon the

heath, which no bad thing could step upon and live. With the first peep

of the sun above the horizon, she saw the little cottage before her,

and ran as fast as she could run towards it, When she came near it, she

saw that the door was open, and ran straight into the outstretched arms

of the wise woman.

The wise woman kissed her and stroked her hair, set her down by the

fire, and gave her a bowl of bread and milk.

When she had eaten it she drew her before her where she sat, and spoke

to her thus:—

“Rosamond, if you would be a blessed creature instead of a mere wretch,

you must submit to be tried.”

“Is that something terrible?” asked the princess, turning white.

“No, my child; but it is something very difficult to come well out of.

Nobody who has not been tried knows how difficult it is; but whoever

has come well out of it, and those who do not overcome never do come

out of it, always looks back with horror, not on what she has come

through, but on the very idea of the possibility of having failed, and

being still the same miserable creature as before.”

“You will tell me what it is before it begins?” said the princess.

“I will not tell you exactly. But I will tell you some things to help

you. One great danger is that perhaps you will think you are in it

before it has really begun, and say to yourself, ‘Oh! this is really

nothing to me. It may be a trial to some, but for me I am sure it is

not worth mentioning.’ And then, before you know, it will be upon you,

and you will fail utterly and shamefully.”

“I will be very, very careful,” said the princess. “Only don’t let me

be frightened.”

“You shall not be frightened, except it be your own doing. You are

already a brave girl, and there is no occasion to try you more that

way. I saw how you rushed into the middle of the ugly creatures; and as

they ran from you, so will all kinds of evil things, as long as you

keep them outside of you, and do not open the cottage of your heart to

let them in. I will tell you something more about what you will have to

go through.

“Nobody can be a real princess—do not imagine you have yet been any

thing more than a mock one—until she is a princess over herself, that

is, until, when she finds herself unwilling to do the thing that is

right, she makes herself do it. So long as any mood she is in makes her

do the thing she will be sorry for when that mood is over, she is a

slave, and no princess. A princess is able to do what is right even

should she unhappily be in a mood that would make another unable to do

it. For instance, if you should be cross and angry, you are not a whit

the less bound to be just, yes, kind even—a thing most difficult in

such a mood—though ease itself in a good mood, loving and sweet.

Whoever does what she is bound to do, be she the dirtiest little girl

in the street, is a princess, worshipful, honorable. Nay, more; her

might goes farther than she could send it, for if she act so, the evil

mood will wither and die, and leave her loving and clean.—Do you

understand me, dear Rosamond?”

As she spoke, the wise woman laid her hand on her head and looked—oh,

so lovingly!—into her eyes.

“I am not sure,” said the princess, humbly.

“Perhaps you will understand me better if I say it just comes to this,

that you must _not do_ what is wrong, however much you are inclined to

do it, and you must _do_ what is right, however much you are

disinclined to do it.”

“I understand that,” said the princess.

“I am going, then, to put you in one of the mood-chambers of which I

have many in the house. Its mood will come upon you, and you will have

to deal with it.”

She rose and took her by the hand. The princess trembled a little, but

never thought of resisting.

The wise woman led her into the great hall with the pictures, and

through a door at the farther end, opening upon another large hall,

which was circular, and had doors close to each other all round it. Of

these she opened one, pushed the princess gently in, and closed it

behind her.

The princess found herself in her old nursery. Her little white rabbit

came to meet her in a lumping canter as if his back were going to

tumble over his head. Her nurse, in her rocking-chair by the chimney

corner, sat just as she had used. The fire burned brightly, and on the

table were many of her wonderful toys, on which, however, she now

looked with some contempt. Her nurse did not seem at all surprised to

see her, any more than if the princess had but just gone from the room

and returned again.

“Oh! how different I am from what I used to be!” thought the princess

to herself, looking from her toys to her nurse. “The wise woman has

done me so much good already! I will go and see mamma at once, and tell

her I am very glad to be at home again, and very sorry I was so

naughty.”

She went towards the door.

“Your queen-mamma, princess, cannot see you now,” said her nurse.

“I have yet to learn that it is my part to take orders from a servant,”

said the princess with temper and dignity.

“I beg your pardon, princess,” returned her nurse, politely; “but it is

my duty to tell you that your queen-mamma is at this moment engaged.

She is alone with her most intimate friend, the Princess of the Frozen

Regions.”

“I shall see for myself,” returned the princess, bridling, and walked

to the door.

Now little bunny, leap-frogging near the door, happened that moment to

get about her feet, just as she was going to open it, so that she

tripped and fell against it, striking her forehead a good blow. She

caught up the rabbit in a rage, and, crying, “It is all your fault, you

ugly old wretch!” threw it with violence in her nurse’s face.

Her nurse caught the rabbit, and held it to her face, as if seeking to

sooth its fright. But the rabbit looked very limp and odd, and, to her

amazement, Rosamond presently saw that the thing was no rabbit, but a

pocket-handkerchief. The next moment she removed it from her face, and

Rosamond beheld—not her nurse, but the wise woman—standing on her own

hearth, while she herself stood by the door leading from the cottage

into the hall.

“First trial a failure,” said the wise woman quietly.

Overcome with shame, Rosamond ran to her, fell down on her knees, and

hid her face in her dress.

“Need I say any thing?” said the wise woman, stroking her hair.

“No, no,” cried the princess. “I am horrid.”

“You know now the kind of thing you have to meet: are you ready to try

again?”

“_May_ I try again?” cried the princess, jumping up. “I’m ready. I do

not think I shall fail this time.”

“The trial will be harder.”

Rosamond drew in her breath, and set her teeth. The wise woman looked

at her pitifully, but took her by the hand, led her to the round hall,

opened the same door, and closed it after her.

The princess expected to find herself again in the nursery, but in the

wise woman’s house no one ever has the same trial twice. She was in a

beautiful garden, full of blossoming trees and the loveliest roses and

lilies. A lake was in the middle of it, with a tiny boat. So delightful

was it that Rosamond forgot all about how or why she had come there,

and lost herself in the joy of the flowers and the trees and the water.

Presently came the shout of a child, merry and glad, and from a clump

of tulip trees rushed a lovely little boy, with his arms stretched out

to her. She was charmed at the sight, ran to meet him, caught him up in

her arms, kissed him, and could hardly let him go again. But the moment

she set him down he ran from her towards the lake, looking back as he

ran, and crying “Come, come.”

She followed. He made straight for the boat, clambered into it, and

held out his hand to help her in. Then he caught up the little

boat-hook, and pushed away from the shore: there was a great white

flower floating a few yards off, and that was the little fellow’s goal.

But, alas! no sooner had Rosamond caught sight of it, huge and glowing

as a harvest moon, than she felt a great desire to have it herself. The

boy, however, was in the bows of the boat, and caught it first. It had

a long stem, reaching down to the bottom of the water, and for a moment

he tugged at it in vain, but at last it gave way so suddenly, that he

tumbled back with the flower into the bottom of the boat. Then

Rosamond, almost wild at the danger it was in as he struggled to rise,

hurried to save it, but somehow between them it came in pieces, and all

its petals of fretted silver were scattered about the boat. When the

boy got up, and saw the ruin his companion had occasioned, he burst

into tears, and having the long stalk of the flower still in his hand,

struck her with it across the face. It did not hurt her much, for he

was a very little fellow, but it was wet and slimy. She tumbled rather

than rushed at him, seized him in her arms, tore him from his

frightened grasp, and flung him into the water. His head struck on the

boat as he fell, and he sank at once to the bottom, where he lay

looking up at her with white face and open eyes.

The moment she saw the consequences of her deed she was filled with

horrible dismay. She tried hard to reach down to him through the water,

but it was far deeper than it looked, and she could not. Neither could

she get her eyes to leave the white face: its eyes fascinated and fixed

hers; and there she lay leaning over the boat and staring at the death

she had made. But a voice crying, “Ally! Ally!” shot to her heart, and

springing to her feet she saw a lovely lady come running down the grass

to the brink of the water with her hair flying about her head.

“Where is my Ally?” she shrieked.

But Rosamond could not answer, and only stared at the lady, as she had

before stared at her drowned boy.

Then the lady caught sight of the dead thing at the bottom of the

water, and rushed in, and, plunging down, struggled and groped until

she reached it. Then she rose and stood up with the dead body of her

little son in her arms, his head hanging back, and the water streaming

from him.

“See what you have made of him, Rosamond!” she said, holding the body

out to her; “and this is your second trial, and also a failure.”

The dead child melted away from her arms, and there she stood, the wise

woman, on her own hearth, while Rosamond found herself beside the

little well on the floor of the cottage, with one arm wet up to the

shoulder. She threw herself on the heather-bed and wept from relief and

vexation both.

The wise woman walked out of the cottage, shut the door, and left her

alone. Rosamond was sobbing, so that she did not hear her go. When at

length she looked up, and saw that the wise woman was gone, her misery

returned afresh and tenfold, and she wept and wailed. The hours passed,

the shadows of evening began to fall, and the wise woman entered.

XIII.

She went straight to the bed, and taking Rosamond in her arms, sat down

with her by the fire.

“My poor child!” she said. “Two terrible failures! And the more the

harder! They get stronger and stronger. What is to be done?”

“Couldn’t you help me?” said Rosamond piteously.

“Perhaps I could, now you ask me,” answered the wise woman. “When you

are ready to try again, we shall see.”

“I am very tired of myself,” said the princess. “But I can’t rest till

I try again.”

“That is the only way to get rid of your weary, shadowy self, and find

your strong, true self. Come, my child; I will help you all I can, for

now I _can_ help you.”

Yet again she led her to the same door, and seemed to the princess to

send her yet again alone into the room. She was in a forest, a place

half wild, half tended. The trees were grand, and full of the loveliest

birds, of all glowing gleaming and radiant colors, which, unlike the

brilliant birds we know in our world, sang deliciously, every one

according to his color. The trees were not at all crowded, but their

leaves were so thick, and their boughs spread so far, that it was only

here and there a sunbeam could get straight through. All the gentle

creatures of a forest were there, but no creatures that killed, not

even a weasel to kill the rabbits, or a beetle to eat the snails out of

their striped shells. As to the butterflies, words would but wrong them

if they tried to tell how gorgeous they were. The princess’s delight

was so great that she neither laughed nor ran, but walked about with a

solemn countenance and stately step.

“But where are the flowers?” she said to herself at length.

They were nowhere. Neither on the high trees, nor on the few shrubs

that grew here and there amongst them, were there any blossoms; and in

the grass that grew everywhere there was not a single flower to be

seen.

“Ah, well!” said Rosamond again to herself, “where all the birds and

butterflies are living flowers, we can do without the other sort.”

Still she could not help feeling that flowers were wanted to make the

beauty of the forest complete.

Suddenly she came out on a little open glade; and there, on the root of

a great oak, sat the loveliest little girl, with her lap full of

flowers of all colors, but of such kinds as Rosamond had never before

seen. She was playing with them—burying her hands in them, tumbling

them about, and every now and then picking one from the rest, and

throwing it away. All the time she never smiled, except with her eyes,

which were as full as they could hold of the laughter of the spirit—a

laughter which in this world is never heard, only sets the eyes alight

with a liquid shining. Rosamond drew nearer, for the wonderful creature

would have drawn a tiger to her side, and tamed him on the way. A few

yards from her, she came upon one of her cast-away flowers and stooped

to pick it up, as well she might where none grew save in her own

longing. But to her amazement she found, instead of a flower thrown

away to wither, one fast rooted and quite at home. She left it, and

went to another; but it also was fast in the soil, and growing

comfortably in the warm grass. What could it mean? One after another

she tried, until at length she was satisfied that it was the same with

every flower the little girl threw from her lap.

She watched then until she saw her throw one, and instantly bounded to

the spot. But the flower had been quicker than she: there it grew, fast

fixed in the earth, and, she thought, looked at her roguishly.

Something evil moved in her, and she plucked it.

“Don’t! don’t!” cried the child. “My flowers cannot live in your

hands.”

Rosamond looked at the flower. It was withered already. She threw it

from her, offended. The child rose, with difficulty keeping her lapful

together, picked it up, carried it back, sat down again, spoke to it,

kissed it, sang to it—oh! such a sweet, childish little song!—the

princess never could recall a word of it—and threw it away. Up rose its

little head, and there it was, busy growing again!

Rosamond’s bad temper soon gave way: the beauty and sweetness of the

child had overcome it; and, anxious to make friends with her, she drew

near, and said:

“Won’t you give me a little flower, please, you beautiful child?”

“There they are; they are all for you,” answered the child, pointing

with her outstretched arm and forefinger all round.

“But you told me, a minute ago, not to touch them.”

“Yes, indeed, I did.”

“They can’t be mine, if I’m not to touch them.”

“If, to call them yours, you must kill them, then they are not yours,

and never, never can be yours. They are nobody’s when they are dead.”

“But you don’t kill them.”

“I don’t pull them; I throw them away. I live them.”

“How is it that you make them grow?”

“I say, ‘You darling!’ and throw it away and there it is.”

“Where do you get them?”

“In my lap.”

“I wish you would let me throw one away.”

“Have you got any in your lap? Let me see.”

“No; I have none.”

“Then you can’t throw one away, if you haven’t got one.”

“You are mocking me!” cried the princess.

“I am not mocking you,” said the child, looking her full in the face,

with reproach in her large blue eyes.

“Oh, that’s where the flowers come from!” said the princess to herself,

the moment she saw them, hardly knowing what she meant.

Then the child rose as if hurt, and quickly threw away all the flowers

she had in her lap, but one by one, and without any sign of anger. When

they were all gone, she stood a moment, and then, in a kind of chanting

cry, called, two or three times, “Peggy! Peggy! Peggy!”

A low, glad cry, like the whinny of a horse, answered, and, presently,

out of the wood on the opposite side of the glade, came gently trotting

the loveliest little snow-white pony, with great shining blue wings,

half-lifted from his shoulders. Straight towards the little girl,

neither hurrying nor lingering, he trotted with light elastic tread.

Rosamond’s love for animals broke into a perfect passion of delight at

the vision. She rushed to meet the pony with such haste, that, although

clearly the best trained animal under the sun, he started back,

plunged, reared, and struck out with his fore-feet ere he had time to

observe what sort of a creature it was that had so startled him. When

he perceived it was a little girl, he dropped instantly upon all fours,

and content with avoiding her, resumed his quiet trot in the direction

of his mistress. Rosamond stood gazing after him in miserable

disappointment.

When he reached the child, he laid his head on her shoulder, and she

put her arm up round his neck; and after she had talked to him a

little, he turned and came trotting back to the princess.

Almost beside herself with joy, she began caressing him in the rough

way which, not-withstanding her love for them, she was in the habit of

using with animals; and she was not gentle enough, in herself even, to

see that he did not like it, and was only putting up with it for the

sake of his mistress. But when, that she might jump upon his back, she

laid hold of one of his wings, and ruffled some of the blue feathers,

he wheeled suddenly about, gave his long tail a sharp whisk which threw

her flat on the grass, and, trotting back to his mistress, bent down

his head before her as if asking excuse for ridding himself of the

unbearable.

The princess was furious. She had forgotten all her past life up to the

time when she first saw the child: her beauty had made her forget, and

yet she was now on the very borders of hating her. What she might have

done, or rather tried to do, had not Peggy’s tail struck her down with

such force that for a moment she could not rise, I cannot tell.

But while she lay half-stunned, her eyes fell on a little flower just

under them. It stared up in her face like the living thing it was, and

she could not take her eyes off its face. It was like a primrose trying

to express doubt instead of confidence. It seemed to put her half in

mind of something, and she felt as if shame were coming. She put out

her hand to pluck it; but the moment her fingers touched it, the flower

withered up, and hung as dead on its stalks as if a flame of fire had

passed over it.

Then a shudder thrilled through the heart of the princess, and she

thought with herself, saying—“What sort of a creature am I that the

flowers wither when I touch them, and the ponies despise me with their

tails? What a wretched, coarse, ill-bred creature I must be! There is

that lovely child giving life instead of death to the flowers, and a

moment ago I was hating her! I am made horrid, and I shall be horrid,

and I hate myself, and yet I can’t help being myself!”

She heard the sound of galloping feet, and there was the pony, with the

child seated betwixt his wings, coming straight on at full speed for

where she lay.

“I don’t care,” she said. “They may trample me under their feet if they

like. I am tired and sick of myself—a creature at whose touch the

flowers wither!”

On came the winged pony. But while yet some distance off, he gave a

great bound, spread out his living sails of blue, rose yards and yards

above her in the air, and alighted as gently as a bird, just a few feet

on the other side of her. The child slipped down and came and kneeled

over her.

“Did my pony hurt you?” she said. “I am so sorry!”

“Yes, he hurt me,” answered the princess, “but not more than I

deserved, for I took liberties with him, and he did not like it.”

“Oh, you dear!” said the little girl. “I love you for talking so of my

Peggy. He is a good pony, though a little playful sometimes. Would you

like a ride upon him?”

“You darling beauty!” cried Rosamond, sobbing. “I do love you so, you

are so good. How did you become so sweet?”

“Would you like to ride my pony?” repeated the child, with a heavenly

smile in her eyes.

“No, no; he is fit only for you. My clumsy body would hurt him,” said

Rosamond.

“You don’t mind me having such a pony?” said the child.

“What! mind it?” cried Rosamond, almost indignantly. Then remembering

certain thoughts that had but a few moments before passed through her

mind, she looked on the ground and was silent.

“You don’t mind it, then?” repeated the child.

“I am very glad there is such a you and such a pony, and that such a

you has got such a pony,” said Rosamond, still looking on the ground.

“But I do wish the flowers would not die when I touch them. I was cross

to see you make them grow, but now I should be content if only I did

not make them wither.”

As she spoke, she stroked the little girl’s bare feet, which were by

her, half buried in the soft moss, and as she ended she laid her cheek

on them and kissed them.

“Dear princess!” said the little girl, “the flowers will not always

wither at your touch. Try now—only do not pluck it. Flowers ought never

to be plucked except to give away. Touch it gently.”

A silvery flower, something like a snow-drop, grew just within her

reach. Timidly she stretched out her hand and touched it. The flower

trembled, but neither shrank nor withered.

“Touch it again,” said the child.

It changed color a little, and Rosamond fancied it grew larger.

“Touch it again,” said the child.

It opened and grew until it was as large as a narcissus, and changed

and deepened in color till it was a red glowing gold.

Rosamond gazed motionless. When the transfiguration of the flower was

perfected, she sprang to her feet with clasped hands, but for very

ecstasy of joy stood speechless, gazing at the child.

“Did you never see me before, Rosamond?” she asked.

“No, never,” answered the princess. “I never saw any thing half so

lovely.”

“Look at me,” said the child.

And as Rosamond looked, the child began, like the flower, to grow

larger. Quickly through every gradation of growth she passed, until she

stood before her a woman perfectly beautiful, neither old nor young;

for hers was the old age of everlasting youth.

Rosamond was utterly enchanted, and stood gazing without word or

movement until she could endure no more delight. Then her mind

collapsed to the thought—had the pony grown too? She glanced round.

There was no pony, no grass, no flowers, no bright-birded forest—but

the cottage of the wise woman—and before her, on the hearth of it, the

goddess-child, the only thing unchanged.

She gasped with astonishment.

“You must set out for your father’s palace immediately,” said the lady.

“But where is the wise woman?” asked Rosamond, looking all about.

“Here,” said the lady.

And Rosamond, looking again, saw the wise woman, folded as usual in her

long dark cloak.

“And it was you all the time?” she cried in delight, and kneeled before

her, burying her face in her garments.

“It always is me, all the time,” said the wise woman, smiling.

“But which is the real you?” asked Rosamond; “this or that?”

“Or a thousand others?” returned the wise woman. “But the one you have

just seen is the likest to the real me that you are able to see just

yet—but—. And that me you could not have seen a little while ago.—But,

my darling child,” she went on, lifting her up and clasping her to her

bosom, “you must not think, because you have seen me once, that

therefore you are capable of seeing me at all times. No; there are many

things in you yet that must be changed before that can be. Now,

however, you will seek me. Every time you feel you want me, that is a

sign I am wanting you. There are yet many rooms in my house you may

have to go through; but when you need no more of them, then you will be

able to throw flowers like the little girl you saw in the forest.”

The princess gave a sigh.

“Do not think,” the wise woman went on, “that the things you have seen

in my house are mere empty shows. You do not know, you cannot yet

think, how living and true they are.—Now you must go.”

She led her once more into the great hall, and there showed her the

picture of her father’s capital, and his palace with the brazen gates.

“There is your home,” she said. “Go to it.”

The princess understood, and a flush of shame rose to her forehead. She

turned to the wise woman and said:

“Will you forgive _all_ my naughtiness, and _all_ the trouble I have

given you?”

“If I had not forgiven you, I would never have taken the trouble to

punish you. If I had not loved you, do you think I would have carried

you away in my cloak?”

“How could you love such an ugly, ill-tempered, rude, hateful little

wretch?”

“I saw, through it all, what you were going to be,” said the wise

woman, kissing her. “But remember you have yet only _begun_ to be what

I saw.”

“I will try to remember,” said the princess, holding her cloak, and

looking up in her face.

“Go, then,” said the wise woman.

Rosamond turned away on the instant, ran to the picture, stepped over

the frame of it, heard a door close gently, gave one glance back, saw

behind her the loveliest palace-front of alabaster, gleaming in the

pale-yellow light of an early summer-morning, looked again to the

eastward, saw the faint outline of her father’s city against the sky,

and ran off to reach it.

It looked much further off now than when it seemed a picture, but the

sun was not yet up, and she had the whole of a summer day before her.

XIV.

The soldiers sent out by the king, had no great difficulty in finding

Agnes’s father and mother, of whom they demanded if they knew any thing

of such a young princess as they described. The honest pair told them

the truth in every point—that, having lost their own child and found

another, they had taken her home, and treated her as their own; that

she had indeed called herself a princess, but they had not believed

her, because she did not look like one; that, even if they had, they

did not know how they could have done differently, seeing they were

poor people, who could not afford to keep any idle person about the

place; that they had done their best to teach her good ways, and had

not parted with her until her bad temper rendered it impossible to put

up with her any longer; that, as to the king’s proclamation, they heard

little of the world’s news on their lonely hill, and it had never

reached them; that if it had, they did not know how either of them

could have gone such a distance from home, and left their sheep or

their cottage, one or the other, uncared for.

“You must learn, then, how both of you can go, and your sheep must take

care of your cottage,” said the lawyer, and commanded the soldiers to

bind them hand and foot.

Heedless of their entreaties to be spared such an indignity, the

soldiers obeyed, bore them to a cart, and set out for the king’s

palace, leaving the cottage door open, the fire burning, the pot of

potatoes boiling upon it, the sheep scattered over the hill, and the

dogs not knowing what to do.

Hardly were they gone, however, before the wise woman walked up, with

Prince behind her, peeped into the cottage, locked the door, put the

key in her pocket, and then walked away up the hill. In a few minutes

there arose a great battle between Prince and the dog which filled his

former place—a well-meaning but dull fellow, who could fight better

than feed. Prince was not long in showing him that he was meant for his

master, and then, by his efforts, and directions to the other dogs, the

sheep were soon gathered again, and out of danger from foxes and bad

dogs. As soon as this was done, the wise woman left them in charge of

Prince, while she went to the next farm to arrange for the folding of

the sheep and the feeding of the dogs.

When the soldiers reached the palace, they were ordered to carry their

prisoners at once into the presence of the king and queen, in the

throne room. Their two thrones stood upon a high dais at one end, and

on the floor at the foot of the dais, the soldiers laid their helpless

prisoners. The queen commanded that they should be unbound, and ordered

them to stand up. They obeyed with the dignity of insulted innocence,

and their bearing offended their foolish majesties.

Meantime the princess, after a long day’s journey, arrived at the

palace, and walked up to the sentry at the gate.

“Stand back,” said the sentry.

“I wish to go in, if you please,” said the princess gently.

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the sentry, for he was one of those dull people

who form their judgment from a person’s clothes, without even looking

in his eyes; and as the princess happened to be in rags, her request

was amusing, and the booby thought himself quite clever for laughing at

her so thoroughly.

“I am the princess,” Rosamond said quietly.

“_What_ princess?” bellowed the man.

“The princess Rosamond. Is there another?” she answered and asked.

But the man was so tickled at the wondrous idea of a princess in rags,

that he scarcely heard what she said for laughing. As soon as he

recovered a little, he proceeded to chuck the princess under the chin,

saying—

“You’re a pretty girl, my dear, though you ain’t no princess.”

Rosamond drew back with dignity.

“You have spoken three untruths at once,” she said. “I am _not_ pretty,

and I _am_ a princess, and if I were dear to you, as I ought to be, you

would not laugh at me because I am badly dressed, but stand aside, and

let me go to my father and mother.”

The tone of her speech, and the rebuke she gave him, made the man look

at her; and looking at her, he began to tremble inside his foolish

body, and wonder whether he might not have made a mistake. He raised

his hand in salute, and said—

“I beg your pardon, miss, but I have express orders to admit no child

whatever within the palace gates. They tell me his majesty the king

says he is sick of children.”

“He may well be sick of me!” thought the princess; “but it can’t mean

that he does not want me home again.—I don’t think you can very well

call me a child,” she said, looking the sentry full in the face.

“You ain’t very big, miss,” answered the soldier, “but so be you say

you ain’t a child, I’ll take the risk. The king can only kill me, and a

man must die once.”

He opened the gate, stepped aside, and allowed her to pass. Had she

lost her temper, as every one but the wise woman would have expected of

her, he certainly would not have done so.

She ran into the palace, the door of which had been left open by the

porter when he followed the soldiers and prisoners to the throne-room,

and bounded up the stairs to look for her father and mother. As she

passed the door of the throne-room she heard an unusual noise in it,

and running to the king’s private entrance, over which hung a heavy

curtain, she peeped past the edge of it, and saw, to her amazement, the

shepherd and shepherdess standing like culprits before the king and

queen, and the same moment heard the king say—

“Peasants, where is the princess Rosamond?”

“Truly, sire, we do not know,” answered the shepherd.

“You ought to know,” said the king.

“Sire, we could keep her no longer.”

“You confess, then,” said the king, suppressing the outbreak of the

wrath that boiled up in him, “that you turned her out of your house.”

For the king had been informed by a swift messenger of all that had

passed long before the arrival of the prisoners.

“We did, sire; but not only could we keep her no longer, but we knew

not that she was the princess.”

“You ought to have known, the moment you cast your eyes upon her,” said

the king. “Any one who does not know a princess the moment he sees her,

ought to have his eyes put out.”

“Indeed he ought,” said the queen.

To this they returned no answer, for they had none ready.

“Why did you not bring her at once to the palace,” pursued the king,

“whether you knew her to be a princess or not? My proclamation left

nothing to your judgment. It said _every child_.”

“We heard nothing of the proclamation, sire.”

“You ought to have heard,” said the king. “It is enough that I make

proclamations; it is for you to read them. Are they not written in

letters of gold upon the brazen gates of this palace?”

“A poor shepherd, your majesty—how often must he leave his flock, and

go hundreds of miles to look whether there may not be something in

letters of gold upon the brazen gates? We did not know that your

majesty had made a proclamation, or even that the princess was lost.”

“You ought to have known,” said the king.

The shepherd held his peace.

“But,” said the queen, taking up the word, “all that is as nothing,

when I think how you misused the darling.”

The only ground the queen had for saying thus, was what Agnes had told

her as to how the princess was dressed; and her condition seemed to the

queen so miserable, that she had imagined all sorts of oppression and

cruelty.

But this was more than the shepherdess, who had not yet spoken, could

bear.

“She would have been dead, and _not_ buried, long ago, madam, if I had

not carried her home in my two arms.”

“Why does she say her _two_ arms?” said the king to himself. “Has she

more than two? Is there treason in that?”

“You dressed her in cast-off clothes,” said the queen.

“I dressed her in my own sweet child’s Sunday clothes. And this is what

I get for it!” cried the shepherdess, bursting into tears.

“And what did you do with the clothes you took off her? Sell them?”

“Put them in the fire, madam. They were not fit for the poorest child

in the mountains. They were so ragged that you could see her skin

through them in twenty different places.”

“You cruel woman, to torture a mother’s feelings so!” cried the queen,

and in her turn burst into tears.

“And I’m sure,” sobbed the shepherdess, “I took every pains to teach

her what it was right for her to know. I taught her to tidy the house

and”—

“Tidy the house!” moaned the queen. “My poor wretched offspring!”

“And peel the potatoes, and”—

“Peel the potatoes!” cried the queen. “Oh, horror!”

“And black her master’s boots,” said the shepherdess.

“Black her master’s boots!” shrieked the queen. “Oh, my white-handed

princess! Oh, my ruined baby!”

“What I want to know,” said the king, paying no heed to this maternal

duel, but patting the top of his sceptre as if it had been the hilt of

a sword which he was about to draw, “is, where the princess is now.”

The shepherd made no answer, for he had nothing to say more than he had

said already.

“You have murdered her!” shouted the king. “You shall be tortured till

you confess the truth; and then you shall be tortured to death, for you

are the most abominable wretches in the whole wide world.”

“Who accuses me of crime?” cried the shepherd, indignant.

“I accuse you,” said the king; “but you shall see, face to face, the

chief witness to your villany. Officer, bring the girl.”

Silence filled the hall while they waited. The king’s face was swollen

with anger. The queen hid hers behind her handkerchief. The shepherd

and shepherdess bent their eyes on the ground, wondering. It was with

difficulty Rosamond could keep her place, but so wise had she already

become that she saw it would be far better to let every thing come out

before she interfered.

At length the door opened, and in came the officer, followed by Agnes,

looking white as death and mean as sin.

The shepherdess gave a shriek, and darted towards her with arms spread

wide; the shepherd followed, but not so eagerly.

“My child! my lost darling! my Agnes!” cried the shepherdess.

“Hold them asunder,” shouted the king. “Here is more villany! What!

have I a scullery-maid in my house born of such parents? The parents of

such a child must be capable of any thing. Take all three of them to

the rack. Stretch them till their joints are torn asunder, and give

them no water. Away with them!”

The soldiers approached to lay hands on them. But, behold! a girl all

in rags, with such a radiant countenance that it was right lovely to

see, darted between, and careless of the royal presence, flung herself

upon the shepherdess, crying,—

“Do not touch her. She is my good, kind mistress.”

But the shepherdess could hear or see no one but her Agnes, and pushed

her away. Then the princess turned, with the tears in her eyes, to the

shepherd, and threw her arms about his neck and pulled down his head

and kissed him. And the tall shepherd lifted her to his bosom and kept

her there, but his eyes were fixed on his Agnes.

“What is the meaning of this?” cried the king, starting up from his

throne. “How did that ragged girl get in here? Take her away with the

rest. She is one of them, too.”

But the princess made the shepherd set her down, and before any one

could interfere she had run up the steps of the dais and then the steps

of the king’s throne like a squirrel, flung herself upon the king, and

begun to smother him with kisses.

All stood astonished, except the three peasants, who did not even see

what took place. The shepherdess kept calling to her Agnes, but she was

so ashamed that she did not dare even lift her eyes to meet her

mother’s, and the shepherd kept gazing on her in silence. As for the

king, he was so breathless and aghast with astonishment, that he was

too feeble to fling the ragged child from him, as he tried to do. But

she left him, and running down the steps of the one throne and up those

of the other, began kissing the queen next. But the queen cried out,—

“Get away, you great rude child!—Will nobody take her to the rack?”

Then the princess, hardly knowing what she did for joy that she had

come in time, ran down the steps of the throne and the dais, and

placing herself between the shepherd and shepherdess, took a hand of

each, and stood looking at the king and queen.

Their faces began to change. At last they began to know her. But she

was so altered—so lovelily altered, that it was no wonder they should

not have known her at the first glance; but it was the fault of the

pride and anger and injustice with which their hearts were filled, that

they did not know her at the second.

The king gazed and the queen gazed, both half risen from their thrones,

and looking as if about to tumble down upon her, if only they could be

right sure that the ragged girl was their own child. A mistake would be

such a dreadful thing!

“My darling!” at last shrieked the mother, a little doubtfully.

“My pet of pets?” cried the father, with an interrogative twist of

tone.

Another moment, and they were half way down the steps of the dais.

“Stop!” said a voice of command from somewhere in the hall, and, king

and queen as they were, they stopped at once half way, then drew

themselves up, stared, and began to grow angry again, but durst not go

farther.

The wise woman was coming slowly up through the crowd that filled the

hall. Every one made way for her. She came straight on until she stood

in front of the king and queen.

“Miserable man and woman!” she said, in words they alone could hear, “I

took your daughter away when she was worthy of such parents; I bring

her back, and they are unworthy of her. That you did not know her when

she came to you is a small wonder, for you have been blind in soul all

your lives: now be blind in body until your better eyes are unsealed.”

She threw her cloak open. It fell to the ground, and the radiance that

flashed from her robe of snowy whiteness, from her face of awful

beauty, and from her eyes that shone like pools of sunlight, smote them

blind.

Rosamond saw them give a great start, shudder, waver to and fro, then

sit down on the steps of the dais; and she knew they were punished, but

knew not how. She rushed up to them, and catching a hand of each said—

“Father, dear father! mother dear! I will ask the wise woman to forgive

you.”

“Oh, I am blind! I am blind!” they cried together. “Dark as night!

Stone blind!”

Rosamond left them, sprang down the steps, and kneeling at her feet,

cried, “Oh, my lovely wise woman! do let them see. Do open their eyes,

dear, good, wise woman.”

The wise woman bent down to her, and said, so that none else could

hear, “I will one day. Meanwhile you must be their servant, as I have

been yours. Bring them to me, and I will make them welcome.”

Rosamond rose, went up the steps again to her father and mother, where

they sat like statues with closed eyes, half-way from the top of the

dais where stood their empty thrones, seated herself between them, took

a hand of each, and was still.

All this time very few in the room saw the wise woman. The moment she

threw off her cloak she vanished from the sight of almost all who were

present. The woman who swept and dusted the hall and brushed the

thrones, saw her, and the shepherd had a glimmering vision of her; but

no one else that I know of caught a glimpse of her. The shepherdess did

not see her. Nor did Agnes, but she felt her presence upon her like the

beat of a furnace seven times heated.

As soon as Rosamond had taken her place between her father and mother,

the wise woman lifted her cloak from the floor, and threw it again

around her. Then everybody saw her, and Agnes felt as if a soft dewy

cloud had come between her and the torrid rays of a vertical sun. The

wise woman turned to the shepherd and shepherdess.

“For you,” she said, “you are sufficiently punished by the work of your

own hands. Instead of making your daughter obey you, you left her to be

a slave to herself; you coaxed when you ought to have compelled; you

praised when you ought to have been silent; you fondled when you ought

to have punished; you threatened when you ought to have inflicted—and

there she stands, the full-grown result of your foolishness! She is

your crime and your punishment. Take her home with you, and live hour

after hour with the pale-hearted disgrace you call your daughter. What

she is, the worm at her heart has begun to teach her. When life is no

longer endurable, come to me.

“Madam,” said the shepherd, “may I not go with you now?”

“You shall,” said the wise woman.

“Husband! husband!” cried the shepherdess, “how are we two to get home

without you?”

“I will see to that,” said the wise woman. “But little of home you will

find it until you have come to me. The king carried you hither, and he

shall carry you back. But your husband shall not go with you. He cannot

now if he would.”

The shepherdess looked and saw that the shepherd stood in a deep sleep.

She went to him and sought to rouse him, but neither tongue nor hands

were of the slightest avail.

The wise woman turned to Rosamond.

“My child,” she said, “I shall never be far from you. Come to me when

you will. Bring them to me.”

Rosamond smiled and kissed her hand, but kept her place by her parents.

They also were now in a deep sleep like the shepherd.

The wise woman took the shepherd by the hand, and led him away.

And that is all my double story. How double it is, if you care to know,

you must find out. If you think it is not finished—I never knew a story

that was. I could tell you a great deal more concerning them all, but I

have already told more than is good for those who read but with their

foreheads, and enough for those whom it has made look a little solemn,

and sigh as they close the book.