“I say, hullo! Haven’t you got any tongue?”
“Oh, verily, verily,—I mean hear, O Prince, I beseech,” she panted. The boy’s merry eyes regarded the shabby small person in puzzled astonishment. He felt an impulse to laugh and run away, but his royal blood forbade either. So he waited.
“You are the Prince,” the little Princess cried. “I’ve been waiting the longest time,—but I knew you’d come,” she added, simply. “Have you got your velvet an’ gold buckles on? I’m goin’ to look in a minute, but I’m waiting to make it spend.”
The Prince whistled softly. “No,” he said then, “I didn’t wear them clo’es to-day. You see, my mother—”
“The Queen,” she interrupted, “you mean the Queen?”
“You bet I do! She’s a reg’lar-builter! Well, she don’t like to have me wearin’ out my best clo’es every day,” he said, gravely.
“No,” eagerly, “nor mine don’t. Queen, I mean,—but she isn’t a mother, mercy, no! I only wear silk dresses every day, not my velvet ones. This silk one is getting a little faded.” She released one hand to smooth the dress wistfully. Then she remembered her painfully practised little speech and launched into it hurriedly.
“Hear, O Prince. Verily, verily, I did not know which color you’d like to find me dressed in—I mean arrayed. I beseech thee to excuse—oh, pardon, I mean—”
But she got no further. She could endure the delay no longer, and her eyes flew open.
She had known his step; she had known his voice. She knew his face. It was terribly freckled, and she had not expected freckles on the face of the Prince. But the merry, honest eyes were the Prince’s eyes. Her gaze wandered downward to the home-made clothes and bare, brown legs, but without uneasiness. The Prince had explained about his clothes. Suddenly, with a shy, glad little cry, the Princess held out her hands to him.