princess, 'all
ready for you when you want it.'

Going to her cabinet, she laid it in the same drawer as before.

'And here is your ring,' she added, taking it from the little finger of
her left hand and putting it on the forefinger of Irene's right hand.

'Oh, thank you, grandmother! I feel so safe now!'

'You are very tired, my child,' the lady went on. 'Your hands are hurt
with the stones, and I have counted nine bruises on you. Just look
what you are like.'

And she held up to her a little mirror which she had brought from the
cabinet. The princess burst into a merry laugh at the sight. She was
so draggled with the stream and dirty with creeping through narrow
places, that if she had seen the reflection without knowing it was a
reflection, she would have taken herself for some gipsy child whose
face was washed and hair combed about once in a month. The lady laughed
too, and lifting her again upon her knee, took off her cloak and
night-gown. Then she carried her to the side of the room. Irene
wondered what she was going to do with her, but asked no
questions--only starting a little when she found that she was going to
lay her in the large silver bath; for as she looked into it, again she
saw no bottom, but the stars shining miles away, as it seemed, in a
great blue gulf. Her hands closed involuntarily on the beautiful arms
that held her, and that was all.

The lady pressed her once more to her bosom, saying:

'Do not be afraid, my child.'

'No, grandmother,' answered the princess, with a little gasp; and the
next instant she sank in the clear cool water.

When she opened her eyes, she saw nothing but a strange lovely blue
over and beneath and all about her. The lady, and the beautiful room,
had vanished from her sight, and she seemed utterly alone. But instead
of being afraid, she felt more than happy--perfectly blissful. And
from somewhere came the voice of the lady, singing a strange sweet
song, of which she could distinguish every word; but of the sense she
had only a feeling--no understanding. Nor could she remember a single
line after it was gone. It vanished, like the poetry in a dream, as
fast as it came. In after years, however, she would sometimes fancy
that snatches of melody suddenly rising in her brain must be little
phrases and fragments of the air of that song; and the very fancy would
make her happier, and abler to do her duty.

How long she lay in the water she did not know. I