ed that she wished to go upon the morrow once more to
the ball, because the king's son had invited her.

While she was busy telling her godmother all that had happened at the
ball, her two sisters knocked at the door. Cinderella let them in.

'What a long time you have been in coming!' she declared, rubbing her
eyes and stretching herself as if she had only just awakened. In real
truth she had not for a moment wished to sleep since they had left.

[Illustration: '_She rose and fled as nimbly as a fawn_']

'If you had been at the ball,' said one of the sisters, 'you would not
be feeling weary. There came a most beautiful princess, the most
beautiful that has ever been seen, and she bestowed numberless
attentions upon us, and gave us her oranges and lemons.'

Cinderella was overjoyed. She asked them the name of the princess, but
they replied that no one knew it, and that the king's son was so
distressed that he would give anything in the world to know who she was.

Cinderella smiled, and said she must have been beautiful indeed.

'Oh, how lucky you are. Could I not manage to see her? Oh, please,
Javotte, lend me the yellow dress which you wear every day.'

'Indeed!' said Javotte, 'that is a fine idea. Lend my dress to a grubby
cinder-slut like you--you must think me mad!'

Cinderella had expected this refusal. She was in no way upset, for she
would have been very greatly embarrassed had her sister been willing to
lend the dress.

The next day the two sisters went to the ball, and so did Cinderella,
even more splendidly attired than the first time.

The king's son was always at her elbow, and paid her endless
compliments.

The young girl enjoyed herself so much that she forgot her godmother's
bidding completely, and when the first stroke of midnight fell upon her
ears, she thought it was no more than eleven o'clock.

She rose and fled as nimbly as a fawn. The prince followed her, but
could not catch her. She let fall one of her glass slippers, however,
and this the prince picked up with tender care.

When Cinderella reached home she was out of breath, without coach,
without lackeys, and in her shabby clothes. Nothing remained of all her
splendid clothes save one of the little slippers, the fellow to the one
which she had let fall.

Inquiries were made of the palace doorkeepers as to whether they had
seen a princess go out, but they declared they had seen no one leave
except a young girl, very ill-clad, who