“Here,” said he.
She came in, but he did not look up.
“Nick,” she asked earnestly, “why wilt thou be so bad, and try to run away from my father?”
“I hate thy father!” said he, and brought his fist down upon his knee.
“Hate him? Oh, Nick! Why?”
“If thou be asking whys,” said Nick, bitterly, “why did he steal me away from my mother?”
“Oh, surely, Nick, that cannot be true—no, no, it cannot be true. Thou hast forgotten, or thou hast slept too hard and had bad dreams. My father would not steal a pin. It was a nightmare. Doth thine head hurt thee?” She came over and stroked his forehead with her cool hand. She was a graceful child, and gentle in all her ways. “I am sorry thou dost not feel well, Nick. But my father will come presently, and he will heal thee soon. Don’t cry any more.”
“I’m not crying,” said Nick, stoutly, though as he spoke a tear ran down his cheek, and fell upon his hand.
“Then it is the roof leaks,” she said, looking up as if she had not seen his tear-blinded eyes. “But cheer up, Nick, and be a good boy—wilt thou not? ’Tis dinner-time, and thy new clothes have come; and thou art to come down now and try them on.”
When Nick came out of the tiring-room and found the master-player come, he knew not what to say or do. “Oh, brave, brave, brave!” cried Cicely, and danced around him, clapping her hands. “Why, it is a very prince—a king! Oh, Nick, thou art most beautiful to see!”