As for the other child, his Royal Highness Prince Dolor,--for somehow
people soon ceased to call him his Majesty, which seemed such a
ridiculous title for a poor little fellow, a helpless cripple,--with
only head and trunk, and no legs to speak of,--he was seen very seldom
by anybody.

Sometimes people daring enough to peer over the high wall of the palace
garden noticed there, carried in a footman's arms, or drawn in a chair,
or left to play on the grass, often with nobody to mind him, a pretty
little boy, with a bright, intelligent face and large, melancholy
eyes--no, not exactly melancholy, for they were his mother's, and she
was by no means sad-minded, but thoughtful and dreamy. They rather
perplexed people, those childish eyes; they were so exceedingly innocent
and yet so penetrating. If anybody did a wrong thing--told a lie, for
instance they would turn round with such a grave, silent surprise the
child never talked much--that every naughty person in the palace was
rather afraid of Prince Dolor.

He could not help it, and perhaps he did not even know it, being no
better a child than many other children, but there was something
about him which made bad people sorry, and grumbling people ashamed of
themselves, and ill-natured people gentle and kind.

I suppose because they were touched to see a poor little fellow who
did not in the least know what had befallen him or what lay before him,
living his baby life as happy as the day is long. Thus, whether or not
he was good himself, the sight of him and his affliction made other
people good, and, above all, made everybody love him--so much so, that
his uncle the Regent began to feel a little uncomfortable.