Now, although it would seem that every possible means had been tried, and though many weary months had passed, yet the Lily Queen still hoped that her dear child might be restored to her. And, during the winter every seer, fortune-teller, witch, or wizard who dwelt in the city, or who wandered that way, had been consulted. But all had failed to give true directions for discovering the lost one.
Thus, mid hopes and fears, the winter and spring passed wearily by.
As summer came on, the queen walked much by herself in the gardens of the palace, that she might, undisturbed, mourn for her lost darling. Sleepless nights and much weeping had made her a Pale Lady indeed. Her strength was failing, her step feeble. Still, however, she continued her daily walks.
And one day, while wandering in the Orange-Grove, she saw, in the path before her, a white lamb.
“Pretty creature!” she cried, “you are pure and innocent as my own lost lamb!”
And she followed it to the end of the walk, and so beyond the palace walls, into a cedar-grove.
Here, close by a ruined hovel, which some poor fagot-gatherer had deserted, the lamb disappeared. He seemed to have entered the hovel. But, upon stepping inside the door, she saw only an aged woman, dressed in dark, flowing robes, who scarcely raised her eyes from the ground.
“I seek,” said the queen, “a white lamb.”
“The Pale Lady,” said the aged woman, still without raising her eyes,—“the Pale Lady seeks, not a lamb, but a sweet flower. Grief lies heavy at her heart. Threads of white are among her once fair locks. Her eye is sunken, her strength gone. All night her tears flow, and the day brings only weariness.
“No joy, no joy for her;