Nor did his godmother come near him. It seemed as if she had given these
treasures and left him alone--to use them or lose them, apply them or
misapply them, according to his own choice. That is all we can do with
children when they grow into big children old enough to distinguish
between right and wrong, and too old to be forced to do either.

Prince Dolor was now quite a big boy. Not tall--alas! he never could be
that, with his poor little shrunken legs, which were of no use, only an
encumbrance. But he was stout and strong, with great sturdy shoulders,
and muscular arms, upon which he could swing himself about almost like
a monkey. As if in compensation for his useless lower limbs, Nature
had given to these extra strength and activity. His face, too, was very
handsome; thinner, firmer, more manly; but still the sweet face of his
childhood--his mother's own face.

How his mother would have liked to look at him! Perhaps she did--who
knows?

The boy was not a stupid boy either. He could learn almost anything he
chose--and he did choose, which was more than half the battle. He never
gave up his lessons till he had learned them all--never thought it a
punishment that he had to work at them, and that they cost him a deal of
trouble sometimes.

"But," thought he, "men work, and it must be so grand to be a man--a
prince too; and I fancy princes work harder than anybody--except kings.
The princes I read about generally turn into kings. I wonder"--the
boy was always wondering--"Nurse,"--and one day he startled her with a
sudden question,--"tell me--shall I ever be a king?"