But she got no further. She could endure the delay no longer, and her
eyes flew open.

She had known his step; she had known his voice. She knew his face.
It was terribly freckled, and she had not expected freckles on the
face of the Prince. But the merry, honest eyes were the Prince's
eyes. Her gaze wandered downward to the home-made clothes and bare,
brown legs, but without uneasiness. The Prince had explained about
his clothes. Suddenly, with a shy, glad little cry, the Princess held
out her hands to him.

The royal blood flooded the face of the Prince and filled in all the
spaces between its little, gold-brown freckles. But the Prince held
out his hand to her. His lips formed for words and she thought he was
going to say, "Verily, Princess, thou hast found favor--"

"Le' 's go fishin'," the Prince said.

Chapter VIII

The Promise

Murray was not as one without hope, for there was
the Promise. The remembrance of it set him now to exulting, in an
odd, restrained little way, where a moment ago he had been
desponding. He clasped plump, brown little hands around a plump,
brown little knee and swayed gently this way and that.

"Maybe she'll begin with my shoes," Murray thought, and held his foot
quite still. He could almost feel light fingers unlacing the stubbed
little shoe; Sheelah's fingers were rather heavy and not patient with
knots. Hers would be patient--there are some things one is certain
of.

"When she unbuttons me," Murray mused on, sitting absolutely
motionless, as if she were unbuttoning him now--"when she unbuttons
me I shall hold in my breath--this way," though he could hardly have
explained why.

She had never unlaced or unbuttoned him. Always, since he was a
little, breathing soul, it had been Sheelah. It had never occurred to
him that he loved Sheelah, but he was used to her. All the mothering
he had ever experienced had been the Sheelah kind--thorough enough,
but lacking something; Murray was conscious that it lacked something.
Perhaps--perhaps to-night he should find out what. For to-night not
Sheelah, but his mother, was going to undress him and put him to bed.
She had promised.

It had come about through his unprecedented wail of grief at parting,
when she had gone into the nursery to say good-bye, in her light,
sweet way. Perhaps it was because she was to be gone all day; perhaps
he was a little lonelier than usual. He was always rather a lonely
little boy, but there were