His own life was a disappointment to him. Partly through his faults, partly by the force of circumstances, his medical career had proved somewhat of a failure. He had not anticipated that in mid-life he would hold the position of parish doctor in one of the lowest districts of London. The failure of his hopes had embittered him. He had grown cynical, morose, and inclined to take the darkest view of human nature. He was more often swayed by suspicion than by sympathy in his dealings with the poor. But he was touched by this boy's simple account of the life which he and his sister led. He looked on him with eyes softened by pity, and longed to do something to help these orphan children.
"What is your name, boy?" he asked.
"Bertram Sinclair," replied the boy promptly.
"And your sister's?"
"Eleanor Eliza," said Bert.
"But I thought you called her something else—some name beginning with P?"
"Oh, Prin, sir—that's short for Princess, you know; but that's not her real name. Father used to call her Princess, because she once took part in a pantomime as a little princess. My! And didn't she look a princess too! You should just have seen her. Her frock was all white, and it sparkled so it made your eyes water to look at it. And she had diamonds in her hair and on her neck, and white satin shoes, and a fan that sparkled too. You couldn't have known her from a real princess."
"As real as the diamonds, no doubt," said the doctor drily. "Ah, so you call her Princess still."
He turned to look again at his patient. She was sleeping soundly once more. Her face was flushed now with a delicate rose, like the lining of a shell. She looked pretty and refined enough to be a princess; but the dingy pillows, the dark, unlovely room were a strange setting for that dainty, fairy-like head and face.
The doctor had smiled as he turned towards her; but the smile died away and a sad expression took its place. His eyes grew moist for a moment as he murmured, "Poor little Princess!"