“The darling, the precious angel,” thought the poor mother as she laid her in her little cot, just as the ladies, and nurses, and all the attendants came trooping into the room. “She is only asleep,” said the Queen, in a whisper.
“Nothing has happened to her—she is sleeping sweetly.”
The ladies stared—the Queen’s behaviour had been so strange they could not understand her.
“It is a pity to be so anxious about the child,” they said to each other. “It will bring no blessing,” for they thought it all came from the Queen’s foolish terror lest the little Princess should catch cold, and they shook their heads.
But the Queen seemed full of thankfulness, very gentle, and subdued. Many times that afternoon she came back to see if little Rose was well—the baby looked a picture of health, but—she was still sleeping.
“The fresh keen air has made her drowsy, I suppose,” said the head nurse, late in the evening when the Queen returned again.
“And she has had nothing to eat since the middle of the day,” said the mother, anxiously. “I almost think if she does not wake of herself in an hour or so, you will have to rouse her.”
To this the nurse agreed. But two hours later, on the Queen’s next visit to the nursery, there was a strange report to give her. The nurse had tried to wake the baby, but it was all in vain. Little Rose just smiled sweetly and rolled over on her other side, without attempting in the least to open her eyes. It seemed cruel to disturb her. She was so very sleepy.
“I think we must let the Princess have her sleep out—children are like that sometimes,” said the nurse.
And the Queen was forced to agree to it, though she had a strange sinking at the heart, and even the King when he came to look at his little daughter felt uneasy, though he tried to speak cheerfully.