without being heard, placed her hand upon his
shoulder with gentle familiarity and said playfully: "What are you
thinking about, my dear prince?"

The child was startled. He turned his face bathed in tears towards
Septimine, and letting himself down with an air of utter dejectment on a
stool near the window, said: "Oh, I am weary!... I am weary to death!"
and the tears flowed anew from his fixed and red eyes.

"Come now, dry those ugly tears," the young maid replied affectionately.
"I came to entertain you. I brought along a large supply of hemp to spin
in your company while talking to you, unless you prefer a game of
huckle-bones--"

"Nothing amuses me. Everything tires me."

"That is sad for those who love you; nothing amuses you, nothing pleases
you. You are always downcast and silent. You take no care of your
person. Your hair is unkempt ... and your clothes in rags! If your hair
were well combed over your forehead, instead of falling in disorder, you
would not look like a little savage.... It is now three days since you
have allowed me to arrange it, but to-day, will ye, nill ye, I shall
comb it."

"No; no; I won't have it!" said the boy stamping his foot with feverish
impatience. "Leave me alone; your attentions annoy me."

"Oh, oh! You can not frighten me with your stamping," Septimine replied
mirthfully. "I have brought along in this box all that I need to comb
you. Be wise and docile."

"Septimine.... Leave me in peace!"

But the young girl was not to be discouraged. With the authority of a
"big sister" she turned around the chair of the recalcitrant boy and
forced him to let her disentangle his disordered hair. While thus giving
him her care with as much affection as grace, Septimine, standing behind
him said: "Are you not a hundred times better looking this way, my dear
prince?"

"What is the difference, good looking or not?... I am not allowed to
leave this convent.... What have I done to be so wretched?"

"Alack, poor little one ... you are the son of a king!"

The boy made no answer, but he hid his face in his hands and fell to
weeping, from time to time crying in a smothered voice: "My father....
Oh, my father.... Alas!... He is dead!"

"Oh, if you again start crying, and, worst of all, to speak of your
father, you will make me also cry. Although I scold you for your
negligence, I do pity you. I came to give you some hope, perhaps."

"What do you mean, Septimine?"

Having finished dress