ing
himself about almost as well as a monkey. His face, too, was very
handsome; thinner, firmer, more manly; but still the sweet face of his
childhood--his mother's own face.

The boy was not a stupid boy either. He could learn almost anything he
chose--and he did choose, which was more than half the battle. He never
gave up his lessons until he had learned them all--never thought it a
punishment that he had to work at them, and that they cost him a deal of
trouble sometimes.

"But," thought he, "men work, and it must be so grand to be a man;--a
prince too; and I fancy princes work harder than anybody--except kings.
The princes I read about generally turn into kings. I wonder"--the boy
was always wondering--"Nurse"--and one day he startled her with a sudden
question--"tell me--shall I ever be a king?"

The woman stood, perplexed beyond expression. So long a time had passed
by since her crime--if it were a crime--and her sentence, that she now
seldom thought of either. She had even grown used to her punishment. And
the little prince whom she at first hated, she had learned to love--at
least, enough to feel sorry for him.

The Prince noticed that her feeling toward him was changing and did not
shrink from her.

"Nurse--dear nurse," said he, one day, "I don't mean to vex you, but
tell me--what is a king? Shall I ever be one?"

Then the idea came to her--what harm would it be, even if he did know
his own history? Perhaps he ought to know it--for there had been many
changes in Nomansland, as in most other countries. Something might
happen--who could tell? Possibly a crown would yet be set upon those
pretty, fair curls--which she began to think prettier than ever when she
saw the imaginary crown upon them.

She sat down, considering whether her oath, "never to say a word to
Prince Dolor about himself," would be broken, if she were to take a
pencil and write, what was to be told. It was a miserable deception. But
then, she was an unhappy woman, more to be pitied than scorned.

After long doubt, she put her finger to her lips, and taking the
Prince's slate--with a sponge tied to it, ready to rub out the writing
in a minute--she wrote:

"You are a king."

Prince Dolor started. His face grew pale and then flushed all over; his
eyes glistened; he held himself erect. Lame as he was, anybody could see
he was born to be a king.

"Hush!" said the nurse, as he was beginning to speak. And then,
terribly frightened all the