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 mi