he world, and fight for your rights like a man. And fight for
me also, my Prince, that I may not die in this desolate place."

"Poor old nurse!" said the boy compassionately. For somehow, boy as he
was, when he heard he was born to be a king, he felt like a man--like a
king--who could afford to be tender because he was strong.

He scarcely slept that night, and even though he heard his little lark
singing in the sunrise, he barely listened to it. Things more serious
and important had taken possession of his mind.

"Suppose," thought he, "I were to do as she says, and go out in the
world, no matter how it hurts me--the world of people, active people, as
that boy I saw. They might only laugh at me--poor helpless creature that
I am; but still I might show them I could do something. At any rate, I
might go and see if there were anything for me to do. Godmother, help
me!"

It was so long since he had asked her help that he was hardly surprised
when he got no answer--only the little lark outside the window sang
louder and louder, and the sun rose, flooding the room with light.

Prince Dolor sprang out of bed, and began dressing himself, which was
hard work, for he was not used to it--he had always been accustomed to
depend upon his nurse for everything.

"But I must now learn to be independent," thought he. "Fancy a king
being dressed like a baby!"

So he did the best he could,--awkwardly but cheerily,--and then he
leaped to the corner where lay his traveling-cloak, untied it as before,
and watched it unrolling itself--which it did rapidly, with a hearty
good-will, as if quite tired of idleness. So was Prince Dolor--or felt
as if he were. He jumped into the middle of it, said his charm, and was
out through the skylight immediately.

"Good-by, pretty lark!" he shouted, as he passed it on the wing, still
warbling its carol to the newly risen sun. "You have been my pleasure,
my delight; now I must go and work. Sing to old nurse till I come back
again. Perhaps she'll hear you--perhaps she won't--but it will do her
good all the same. Good-by!"

But, as the cloak hung irresolute in air, he suddenly remembered that he
had not determined where to go--indeed, he did not know, and there was
nobody to tell him.

"Godmother," he cried, in much perplexity, "you know what I want,--at
least, I hope you do, for I hardly do myself--take me where I ought to
go; show me whatever I ought to see--never mind what I like to see,"
as a s