"There came pouring a stream of sun-rays ... like a bridge ... Sliding down it,
as if she had been made of air, came the little old woman in grey."
So beautiful looked she—old as she was—that Prince Dolor was at first quite startled by the apparition. Then he held out his arms in eager delight.
"O, godmother, you have not forsaken me!"
"Not at all, my son. You may not have seen me, but I have seen you, many a time."
"How?"
"O, never mind. I can turn into anything I please, you know. And I have been a bearskin rug, and a crystal goblet—and sometimes I have changed from inanimate to animate nature, put on feathers, and made myself very comfortable as a bird."
"Ha!" laughed the Prince, a new light breaking in upon him, as he caught the infection of her tone, lively and mischievous. "Ha, ha! a lark, for instance?"
"Or a magpie," answered she, with a capital imitation of Mistress Mag's croaky voice. "Do you suppose I am always sentimental and never funny?—If anything makes you happy, gay or grave, don't you think it is more than likely to come through your old godmother?"