The Princess Finds Her Husband Bewitched
“Alb,” said she, “this can go on no longer. You are bewitched.”
I smiled indulgently. “I am not aware of it,” I said.
“Tell me,” she said, earnestly, “what are those three black hairs in your head?”
“Oh, those! They are nothing. I found them there after the old beggar had pretended to grant me a wish, long ago.”
“What old beggar? Now I am learning something! Tell me about the old beggar and the wish!”
“What does it matter? He was a ragged old fellow, with shaggy eyebrows, carrying a yardstick and tailor’s shears, and I sold him a fine gold chain for a wish, and right angry my father was, too. But I was only twelve years old, you know.”
“Why have you never told me this before? What was the wish?”
“The wish? Oh, I wished—I wished I might be perfectly happy, always;—always happy;—a pretty good wish, I think.”
“A terrible wish! A frightful wish! Tell me—tell me—have you ever wept since you were twelve years old?”