The truth is, Laura was a petted, spoiled, wayward little creature, always depending upon others for entertainment, too lazy to amuse herself, and much less inclined to study or to find happiness in being useful.
She had nurses and governesses. She had toys and trinkets, and the latter were of about as much service as the former. Her mother had always loved her fondly, but even she began to see that something was amiss with Laura, and to think her little child needed something she could not buy for her. Absorbed in her books, her music, and her embroidery, Laura's mother was constantly occupied; but, strange to say, she seemed to forget that Laura, too, might need occupation. One day Laura's mamma went alone on an excursion into the woods. She had seemed very much distressed. Her maid noticed that she had been intently regarding Laura for several days, and had spoken of the child's unhappiness.
When she returned from her excursion with tearful eyes, and bade Laura be ready for a little journey on the following day, every one in the castle became alarmed.
The nurses put their caps together and whispered. Even Polly on her perch screamed out, "What's the matter? what's the matter?" but no one took any notice of her. Laura did not know whether to be pleased or displeased; but she was, of course, inclined to sulk about it, rather than to clap her hands with glee and shout for joy.
"THEY FOUND HER, CURLED UP IN A LITTLE HEAP, FAST ASLEEP."
She watched the preparations made for her departure with indifference, although her pretty frocks were taken down from their hooks in the closets, and her gay ribbons from their boxes, and a trunk of cedar-wood with silver bands was brought into the little pretty room, or boudoir, as it was called, which joined the bedrooms. Almost any child would have been pleased to watch this getting ready to go away, and would have entered into the details with interest. Many a one would have busied herself with packing her little treasures, her doll's clothes, or her playthings; but Laura stood in a listless way in the door, leaning first upon one foot, then upon the other, wondering just a little where it might be that she was going, and teasing her little spaniel when he leaped to caress her, till, tired of watching the maids, she wandered off to gaze into the cabinet I have spoken of. And when evening came, there they found her, curled up in a little heap, fast asleep. Fido, too, was asleep beside his little mistress, for, much as she teased him, he yet loved her.
The morning dawned clear and cool, and Laura's mamma bade the nurses put plenty of wraps in the travelling carriage; she also bade them give Laura a cup of hot chocolate, which was an unusual luxury for the little damsel. Laura's trunk was stowed away, and, to the surprise of all, hers was the only trunk visible, so that it looked very much as if the Lady Idleways meant to return sooner than the little princess—whose title, by-the-way, had been given by her papa in jest, when she was an infant, from some of her absurd little freaks of disdain.
All through the light breakfast Lady Idleways never smiled, but watched her daughter anxiously. Laura fed her spaniel and crumbled her rolls indifferently. Her little face looked pale and her eyes dim, as if she might have cried, but there were no tears to be seen; and when she bade all the household "good bye," she seemed to be entirely unconcerned. And in this mood she stayed while the carriage rolled away down the hills, and over the stone bridges, and past the cottages, till they came to the woods. Then her mother drew her to her bosom and said, "Laura, darling, I am about to do something for your good which seems very harsh. It pains me, child, to do it; but you will thank me yet for it. In the Forest of Pines, towards which we are now journeying, lives an old friend of mine—a fairy friend—whom I have consulted in regard to you. She knows that I desire your happiness, and she understands me when I tell her that you seem drooping and unhappy; that it is more my misfortune than my fault (for, having but one child, I do not know the needs of children as well as those mothers who have many); and she has bidden me bring you to her, with the promise that she will make you the happy, loving little girl you ought to be. I shall feel the separation keenly, I shall miss you sadly, but knowing that my little daughter is to gain only good, I have made up my mind to let you make this visit."
Laura pouted a little, wept a little, and then, as the woods became denser, crept closer to her mother.