“Isn’t it rather late to be in bed?” asked the little old gentleman. “I’ve been up a long time myself, and had a walk by the river too.”
“But I’m sick,” said Lydia importantly; “I’ve hurt my head and my ankle. I can’t get up.”
“You don’t say so,” said the old gentleman, interested at once. “Well, in that case, I’d better come up.”
And in a twinkling he was up the steps and sitting at the side of Lydia’s bed.
“How did you get such a bump on your head?” said he. “It’s as handsome a one as ever I saw, and I’ve seen a good many.”
“I fell downstairs last night,” answered Lydia, feeling her “handsome bump” with fresh pleasure, and glad to tell her story. “I hurt my head and my ankle. I can’t walk.”
“Then I’m the very man for you,” returned the old gentleman cheerfully, “for I’m a tinker. I tinker people—their heads, and their arms, and their legs. It’s well I happened along this morning. And now that I’ve seen the bump on your head, if you’re willing I’ll have a look at your ankle, too.”
Lydia sat very still while the jolly tinker carefully felt of the injured ankle, and asked her a question or two. She screwed up her face with pain now and then, but she didn’t shed a single tear. At last the tinker nodded as if satisfied, and sat down again on the side of the bed.
“In tinker talk,” said he, “it’s a strain. But the truth is that overnight you’ve been bewitched. Yes,” said the tinker gravely, “you’ve been turned into the Princess-Without-Legs. And I have a pretty good idea who did the mischief. But my magic is stronger than his magic, and the first thing you know, you will be as well as ever again.”
Lydia was listening to all this with eyes and mouth wide open.