e content to stay just what you are."

The little old woman said this--very firmly, but gently, too--with her
arms round his neck and her lips on his forehead. It was the first
time the boy had ever heard any one talk like this, and he looked up in
surprise--but not in pain, for her sweet manner softened the hardness of
her words.

"Now, my Prince,--for you are a prince, and must behave as such,--let us
see what we can do; how much I can do for you, or show you how to do for
yourself. Where is your traveling-cloak?"

Prince Dolor blushed extremely. "I--I put it away in the cupboard; I
suppose it is there still."

"You have never used it; you dislike it?"

He hesitated, no; wishing to be impolite. "Don't you think it's--just a
little old and shabby for a prince?"

The old woman laughed--long and loud, though very sweetly.

"Prince, indeed! Why, if all the princes in the world craved for it,
they couldn't get it, unless I gave it them. Old and shabby! It's the
most valuable thing imaginable! Very few ever have it; but I thought
I would give it to you, because--because you are different from other
people."

"Am I?" said the Prince, and looked first with curiosity, then with a
sort of anxiety, into his godmother's face, which was sad and grave,
with slow tears beginning to steal down.

She touched his poor little legs. "These are not like those of other
little boys."

"Indeed!--my nurse never told me that."

"Very likely not. But it is time you were told; and I tell you, because
I love you."

"Tell me what, dear godmother?"

"That you will never be able to walk or run or jump or play--that your
life will be quite different from most people's lives; but it may be a
very happy life for all that. Do not be afraid."

"I am not afraid," said the boy; but he turned very pale, and his lips
began to quiver, though he did not actually cry--he was too old for
that, and, perhaps, too proud.

Though not wholly comprehending, he began dimly to guess what his
godmother meant. He had never seen any real live boys, but he had seen
pictures of them running and jumping; which he had admired and tried
hard to imitate but always failed. Now he began to understand why he
failed, and that he always should fail--that, in fact, he was not like
other little boys; and it was of no use his wishing to do as they did,
and play as they played, even if he had had them to play with. His was a
separate life, in which he must find out ne