The nephew stretched himself and then sat up in bed. “Well, it had got to the end, anyway.”
“Oh, had it? What became of the wicked enchantress?” The nephew lay down again, in considerable dismay.
“Uncle,” said the niece, very coaxingly, “I didn't say it had come to the end.”
“But it has,” said the papa. “And I'm mighty glad you forgot the Prince's name, for the rule of this story is that it has to go on as long as any one listening remembers, and it might have gone on forever.”
“I suppose,” the nephew said, “a person may guess?”
“He may, if he guesses right. If he guesses wrong, he has to be thrown from a high tower—the same one the wicked enchantress was thrown from.”
“There!” shouted the nephew; “you said you wouldn't tell. How high was the tower, anyway, uncle? As high as the Eiffel Tower in Paris?”
“Not quite. It was three feet and five inches high.”
“Ho! Then the enchantress was a dwarf!”
“Who said she was a dwarf?”