“We shall be late,” she cried excitedly, “if you don’t come at once—at once, I say. And think what a terrible thing it would be to keep Prince Charming waiting.”
I nodded to Burbidge and started off with Bess at a brisk trot up the front drive, mounted the field that led to the station, and waited panting on the platform for the little dog.
To my surprise Bess had a cloak on her arm.
“You are not cold, child?” I asked.
“No, no, mum; but what if the pug was to catch cold?”
“We must hope not, for that would be a calamity,” I answered.
Bess skipped and danced up and down, clinging to my hand, jumping and swaying backwards and forwards, as if her little body were made of quicksilver. Then, after a while, she suddenly fell into a reflective mood, and asked what are the best ways of forgetting that you are waiting?
“To think of something else, or not to want so badly,” I answered.
“I couldn’t do that,” answered Bess, gravely, “because I shouldn’t be me if I did, and he couldn’t be Prince Charming if I didn’t want him. I feel,” she gasped, “as if I just want, want till I am dying of wanting.”
I looked at my little girl. “Suppose he didn’t come by this train, what would you do then?”