in this story deeper than that of an ordinary fairy tale, I will own
that there is. But I have hidden it so carefully that the smaller
people, and many larger folk, will never find it out, and meantime the
book may be read straight on, like "Cinderella," or "Blue-Beard," or
"Hop-o'my-Thumb," for what interest it has, or what amusement it may
bring.

Having said this, I return to Prince Dolor, that little lame boy whom
many may think so exceedingly to be pitied. But if you had seen him as
he sat patiently untying his wonderful cloak, which was done up in
a very tight and perplexing parcel, using skillfully his deft little
hands, and knitting his brows with firm determination, while his eyes
glistened with pleasure and energy and eager anticipation--if you had
beheld him thus, you might have changed your opinion.

When we see people suffering or unfortunate, we feel very sorry for
them; but when we see them bravely bearing their sufferings and making
the best of their misfortunes, it is quite a different feeling. We
respect, we admire them. One can respect and admire even a little child.

When Prince Dolor had patiently untied all the knots, a remarkable thing
happened. The cloak began to undo itself. Slowly unfolding, it laid
itself down on the carpet, as flat as if it had been ironed; the split
joined with a little sharp crick-crack, and the rim turned up all round
till it was breast-high; for meantime the cloak had grown and grown, and
become quite large enough for one person to sit in it as comfortable as
if in a boat.

The Prince watched it rather anxiously; it was such an extraordinary,
not to say a frightening, thing. However, he was no coward, but a