it is a story suitable to the season," said Mrs. Cathcart, smiling.
"Yes, very," I said; "for it is a child's story—a fairy tale, namely; though I confess I think it fitter for grown than for young children. I hope it is funny, though. I think it is."
"So you approve of fairy-tales for children, Mr. Smith?"
"Not for children alone, madam; for everybody that can relish them."
"But not at a sacred time like this?"
And again she smiled an insinuating smile.
"If I thought God did not approve of fairy-tales, I would never read, not to say write one, Sunday or Saturday. Would you, madam?"
"I never do."
"I feared not. But I must begin, notwithstanding."
The story, as I now give it, is not exactly as I read it then, because, of course, I was more anxious that it should be correct when I prepared it for the press, than when I merely read it before a few friends.
"Once upon a time," I began; but I was unexpectedly interrupted by the clergyman, who said, addressing our host:
"Will you allow me, Colonel Cathcart, to be Master of the Ceremonies for the evening?"
"Certainly, Mr. Armstrong."
"Then I will alter the arrangement of the party. Here, Henry—don't get up, Miss Cathcart—we'll just lift Miss Cathcart's couch to this corner by the fire.—Lie still, please. Now, Mr. Smith, you sit here in the middle. Now, Mrs. Cathcart, here is an easy chair for you. With my commanding officer I will not interfere. But having such a jolly fire it was a pity not to get the good of it. Mr. Bloomfield, here is room for you and Mrs. Bloomfield."
"Excellently arranged," said our host. "I will sit by you, Mr. Armstrong. Percy, won't you come and join the circle?"
"No, thank you, uncle," answered Percy from a couch, "I am more comfortable here."
"Now, Lizzie," said the curate to his wife, "you sit on this stool by me.—Too near the fire? No?—Very well.—Harry, put the bottle of water near Mr. Smith. A fellow-feeling for another fellow—you see, Mr. Smith. Now we're all right, I think; that is, if Mrs. Cathcart is comfortable."
"Thanks. Quite."
"Then we may begin. Now, Mr. Smith.—One word more: anybody may speak that likes. Now, then."
So I did begin—
"Title: THE LIGHT PRINCESS.
"Second Title: A FAIRY-TALE WITHOUT FAIRIES."
"Author: JOHN SMITH, Gentleman.
"Motto:—'Your Servant, Goody Gravity.'
"From—SIR CHARLES GRANDISON."
"I must be very stupid, I fear, Mr. Smith; but to tell the truth, I can't make head or tail of it," said Mrs. Cathcart.
"Give me leave, madam," said I; "that is my office. Allow me, and I hope to make both head and tail of it for you. But let me give you first a mere general, and indeed a more applicable motto for my story. It is this—from no worse authority than John Milton:
'Great bards beside
In sage and solemn times have sung
Of turneys and of trophies hung;
Of forests and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.'
"Milton here refers to Spencer in particular, most likely. But what distinguishes the true bard in such work is, that more is meant than meets the ear; and although I am no bard, I should scorn to write anything that only spoke to the ear, which signifies the surface understanding."
General silence followed, and I went on.
"THE LIGHT PRINCESS.
"CHAPTER I.—WHAT! NO CHILDREN?
"Once upon a time, so long ago, that I have quite forgotten the date, there lived a king and queen who had no children.
"And the king said to himself: 'All the queens of my acquaintance have children, some three, some seven, an some as many as twelve; and my queen has not one. I feel ill-used.' So he made up his mind to be cross with his wife about it. But she bore it all like a good patient queen as she was. Then the king grew very cross indeed. But the queen pretended to take it all as a joke, and a very good one, too.
"'Why don't you have any daughters, at least?' said he, 'I don't say sons; that might be too much to expect.'
"'I am sure, dear king, I am very sorry,' said the queen.
"'So you ought to be,' retorted the king; 'you are not going to make a virtue of that, surely.'
"But he was not an ill-tempered king; and, in any matter of less moment, he would have let the queen have her own way, with all his heart. This, however, was an affair of state.
"The queen smiled.
"'You must have patience with a lady, you know, dear king,' said she.
"She was, indeed, a very nice queen, and heartily sorry that she could not oblige the king immediately.
"The king tried to have patience, but he succeeded very badly. It was more than he deserved, therefore, when, at last, the queen gave him a daughter—as lovely a little princess as ever cried."
* * * * *
"CHAPTER II.—WON'T I, JUST?
"The day drew near when the infant must be christened. The king wrote all the invitations with his own hand. Of course somebody was forgotten.
"Now, it does not generally matter if somebody is forgotten, but you must mind who. Unfortunately, the king forgot without intending it; and the chance fell upon the Princess Makemnoit, which was awkward. For the Princess was the king's own sister; and he ought not to have forgotten her. But she had made herself so disagreeable to the old king, their father, that he had forgot her in making his will; and so it was no wonder that her brother forgot her in writing his invitations. But poor relations don't do anything to keep you in mind of them. Why don't they? The king could not see into the garret she lived in, could he? She was a sour, spiteful creature. The wrinkles of contempt crossed the wrinkles of peevishness, and made her face as full of wrinkles as a pat of butter. If ever a king could be justified in forgetting anybody, this king was justified in forgetting his sister, even at a christening. And then she was so disgracefully poor! She looked very odd, too. Her forehead was as large as all the rest of her face, and projected over it like a precipice. When she was angry, her little eyes flashed blue. When she hated anybody, they shone yellow and green. What they looked like when she loved anybody, I do not know; for I never heard of her loving anybody but herself, and I do not think she could have managed that, if she had not somehow got used to herself. But what made it highly imprudent in the king to forget her, was—that she
