“But, look here, Fluff,” returned her brother, “if you’re a princess, why do you wear that old gray dress and those patched-up shoes? Father used to tell us that princesses always wore the loveliest dresses.”
Meg looked at herself and sighed.
“I really ought to have some new dresses, Bud. And I suppose if you order them they will be ready in no time. And you must have some new clothes, too, for your jacket is ragged and soiled.”
“Do you really think it’s true, Fluff?” he asked anxiously.
“Of course it’s true. Look at your kingly robe, and your golden crown, and that stick with all those jewels in it!”—meaning the scepter. “They’re true enough, aren’t they?”
Bud nodded.
“Call in that old man,” he said. “I’ll order something, and see if he obeys me. If he does, then I’ll believe I’m really a king.”
“But now listen, Bud,” said Meg, gravely; “don’t you let these folks see you’re afraid, or that you’re not sure whether you’re a king or not. Order them around and make them afraid of you. That’s what the kings do in all the stories I ever read.”
“I will,” replied Bud. “I’ll order them around. So you call in that old donkey with the silver buttons all over him.”
“Here’s a bell-rope,” said Meg; “I’ll pull it.”