grown like those of other children; but she was not a child--she was an
old woman. Her hair was gray, and her dress was gray, and there was a
gray shadow over her wherever she moved. But she had the sweetest smile,
the prettiest hands, and when she spoke it was in the softest voice
imaginable.

"My dear little boy,"--and dropping her cane, the only bright and rich
thing about her, she laid those two tiny hands on his shoulders,--"my
own little boy, I could not come to you until you had said you wanted
me; but now you do want me, here I am."

"And you are very welcome, madam," replied the Prince, trying to speak
politely, as princes always did in books; "and I am exceedingly obliged
to you. May I ask who you are? Perhaps my mother?" For he knew that
little boys usually had a mother, and had occasionally wondered what had
become of his own.

"No," said the visitor, with a tender, half-sad smile, putting back the
hair from his forehead, and looking right into his eyes--"no, I am not
your mother, though she was a dear friend of mine; and you are as like
her as ever you can be."

"Will you tell her to come and see me, then?"

"She cannot; but I dare say she knows all about you. And she loves you
very much--and so do I; and I want to help you all I can, my poor little
boy."

"Why do you call me poor?" asked Prince Dolor, in surprise.