to expect that, and things might have been worse. Anyhow she is not
jealous--thank goodness.

So the day comes when poor little Cinderella sits alone of a night in
the beautiful palace. The courtiers have gone home in their carriages.
The Lord High Chancellor has bowed himself out backwards. The
Gold-Stick-in-Waiting and the Grooms of the Chamber have gone to their
beds. The Maids of Honour have said "Good-night," and drifted out of
the door, laughing and whispering among themselves. The clock strikes
twelve--one--two, and still no footstep creaks upon the stair. Once it
followed swiftly upon the "good-night" of the maids, who did not laugh
or whisper then.

At last the door opens, and the Prince enters, none too pleased at
finding Cinderella still awake. "So sorry I'm late, my love--detained on
affairs of state. Foreign policy very complicated, dear. Have only just
this moment left the Council Chamber."

And little Cinderella, while the Prince sleeps, lies sobbing out her
poor sad heart into the beautiful royal pillow, embroidered with the
royal arms and edged with the royal monogram in lace. "Why did he ever
marry me? I should have been happier in the old kitchen. The black
beetles did frighten me a little, but there was always the dear old
cat; and sometimes, when mother and the girls were out, papa would call
softly down the kitchen stairs for me to come up, and we would have such
a merry evening together, and sup off sausages: dear old dad, I hardly
ever see him now. And then, when my work was done, how pleasant it was
to sit in front of the fire, and dream of the wonderful things that
would come to me some day. I was always going to be a Princess, even in
my dreams, and live in a palace, but it was so different to this. Oh,
how I hate it, this beastly palace where everybody sneers at me--I know
they do, though they bow and scrape, and pretend to be so polite.
And I'm not clever and smart as they are. I hate them. I hate these
bold-faced women who are always here. That is the worst of a palace,
everybody can come in. Oh, I hate everybody and everything. Oh,
god-mamma, god-mamma, come and take me away. Take me back to my old
kitchen. Give me back my old poor frock. Let me dance again with the
fire-tongs for a partner, and be happy, dreaming."

Poor little Cinderella, perhaps it would have been better had god-mamma
been less ambitious for you, dear; had you married some good, honest
yeoman, who would never have