hem better.

If anybody had said that Prince Dolor's uncle was cruel, he would have
said that what he did was for the good of the country.

Therefore he went one day to the council-chamber, informed the ministers
and the country that the young King was in failing health, and that it
would be best to send him for a time to the Beautiful Mountains where
his mother was born.

Soon after he obtained an order to send the King away--which was done in
great state. The nation learned, without much surprise, that the poor
little Prince--had fallen ill on the road and died within a few hours;
so declared the physician in attendance, and the nurse who had been sent
to take care of him. They brought the coffin back in great state, and
buried him with his parents.

The country went into deep mourning for him, and then forgot him, and
his uncle reigned in his stead.

CHAPTER III.

And what of the little lame prince, whom everybody seemed so easily to
have forgotten?

Not everybody. There were a few kind souls, mothers of families, who had
heard his sad story, and some servants about the palace, who had been
familiar with his sweet ways--these many a time sighed and said, "Poor
Prince Dolor!" Or, looking at the Beautiful Mountains, which were
visible all over Nomansland, though few people ever visited them, "Well,
perhaps his Royal Highness is better where he is."

They did not know that beyond the mountains, between them and the sea,
lay a tract of country, level, barren, except for a short stunted grass,
and here and there a patch of tiny flowers. Not a bush--not a tree--not
a resting place for bird or beast in that dreary plain. It was not a
pleasant place to live.

The only sign that human creatures had ever been near the spot was a
large round tower which rose up in the centre of the plain. In form it
resembled the Irish round towers, which have puzzled people for so long,
nobody being able to find out when, or by whom they were made. It was
circular, of very firm brickwork, with neither doors nor windows, until
near the top, when you could perceive some slits in the wall, through
which one could not possibly creep in or look out. Its height was nearly
a hundred feet.

The plain was desolate, like a desert, only without sand, and led to
nowhere except the still more desolate sea-coast; nobody ever crossed
it. Whatever mystery there was about the tower, it and the sky and the
plain kept to themselves.

It wa