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have already said that the princess was, at this time of her life, such a low-minded creature, that severity had greater influence over her than kindness. She understood terror better far than tenderness. When the wise woman looked at her thus, she fell on her knees, and held up her hands to her, crying,—

      "Oh, don't eat me! don't eat me!"

      Now this being the best SHE could do, it was a sign she was a low creature. Think of it—to kick at kindness, and kneel from terror. But the sternness on the face of the wise woman came from the same heart and the same feeling as the kindness that had shone from it before. The only thing that could save the princess from her hatefulness, was that she should be made to mind somebody else than her own miserable Somebody.

      Without saying a word, the wise woman reached down her hand, took one of Rosamond's, and, lifting her to her feet, led her along through the moonlight. Every now and then a gush of obstinacy would well up in the heart of the princess, and she would give a great ill-tempered tug, and pull her hand away; but then the wise woman would gaze down upon her with such a look, that she instantly sought again the hand she had rejected, in pure terror lest she should be eaten upon the spot. And so they would walk on again; and when the wind blew the folds of the cloak against the princess, she found them soft as her mother's camel-hair shawl.

      After a little while the wise woman began to sing to her, and the princess could not help listening; for the soft wind amongst the low dry bushes of the heath, the rustle of their own steps, and the trailing of the wise woman's cloak, were the only sounds beside.

      And this is the song she sang:—

           Out in the cold,

           With a thin-worn fold

           Of withered gold

           Around her rolled,

      Hangs in the air the weary moon.

           She is old, old, old;

           And her bones all cold,

           And her tales all told,

           And her things all sold,

      And she has no breath to croon.

           Like a castaway clout,

           She is quite shut out!

           She might call and shout,

           But no one about

      Would ever call back, "Who's there?"

           There is never a hut,

           Not a door to shut,

           Not a footpath or rut,

           Long road or short cut,

      Leading to anywhere!

           She is all alone

           Like a dog-picked bone,

           The poor old crone!

           She fain would groan,

      But she cannot find the breath.

           She once had a fire;

           But she built it no higher,

           And only sat nigher

           Till she saw it expire;

      And now she is cold as death.

           She never will smile

           All the lonesome while.

           Oh the mile after mile,

           And never a stile!

      And never a tree or a stone!

           She has not a tear:

           Afar and anear

           It is all so drear,

           But she does not care,

      Her heart is as dry as a bone.

           None to come near her!

           No one to cheer her!

           No one to jeer her!

           No one to hear her!

      Not a thing to lift and hold!

           She is always awake,

           But her heart will not break:

           She can only quake,

           Shiver, and shake:

      The old woman is very cold.

      As strange as the song, was the crooning wailing tune that the wise woman sung. At the first note almost, you would have thought she wanted to frighten the princess; and so indeed she did. For when people WILL be naughty, they have to be frightened, and they are not expected to like it. The princess grew angry, pulled her hand away, and cried,—

      "YOU are the ugly old woman. I hate you!"

      Therewith she stood still, expecting the wise woman to stop also, perhaps coax her to go on: if she did, she was determined not to move a step. But the wise woman never even looked about: she kept walking on steadily, the same pace as before. Little Obstinate thought for certain she would turn; for she regarded herself as much too precious to be left behind. But on and on the wise woman went, until she had vanished away in the dim moonlight. Then all at once the princess perceived that she was left alone with the moon, looking down on her from the height of her loneliness. She was horribly frightened, and began to run after the wise woman, calling aloud. But the song she had just heard came back to the sound of her own running feet,—

      All all alone,

      Like a dog-picked bone!

      and again,—

           She might call and shout,

           And no one about

      Would ever call back, "Who's there?"

      and she screamed as she ran. How she wished she knew the old woman's name, that she might call it after her through the moonlight!

      But the wise woman had, in truth, heard the first sound of her running feet, and stopped and turned, waiting. What with running and crying, however, and a fall or two as she ran, the princess never saw her until she fell right into her arms—and the same moment into a fresh rage; for as soon as any trouble was over the princess was always ready to begin another. The wise woman therefore pushed her away, and walked on; while the princess ran scolding and storming after her. She had to run till, from very fatigue, her rudeness ceased. Her heart gave way; she burst into tears, and ran on silently weeping.

      A minute more and the wise woman stooped, and lifting her in her arms, folded her cloak around her. Instantly she fell asleep, and slept as soft and as soundly as if she had been in her own bed. She slept till the moon went down; she slept till the sun rose up; she slept till he climbed the topmost sky; she slept till he went down again, and the poor old moon came peaking and peering out once more: and all that time the wise woman went walking on and on very fast. And now they had reached a spot where a few fir-trees came to meet them through the moonlight.

      At the same time the princess awaked, and popping her head out between the folds of the wise woman's cloak—a very ugly little owlet she looked—saw that they were entering the wood. Now there is something awful about every wood, especially in the moonlight; and perhaps a fir-wood is more awful than other woods. For one thing, it lets a little more light through, rendering the darkness a little more visible, as it were; and then the trees go stretching away up towards the moon, and look as if they cared nothing about the creatures below them—not like the broad trees with soft wide leaves that, in the darkness even, look sheltering. So the princess is not to be blamed that she was very much frightened. She is hardly to be blamed either that, assured the wise woman was an ogress carrying her to her castle to eat her up, she began again to kick and scream violently, as those of my readers who are of the same sort

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