The woman stood, perplexed beyond expression. So long a time had passed
by since her crime--if it were a crime--and her sentence, that she now
seldom thought of either. Even her punishment--to be shut up for life in
Hopeless Tower--she had gradually got used to. Used also to the little
lame Prince, her charge--whom at first she had hated, though she
carefully did everything to keep him alive, since upon him her own life
hung.

But latterly she had ceased to hate him, and, in a sort of way, almost
loved him--at least, enough to be sorry for him--an innocent child,
imprisoned here till he grew into an old man, and became a dull,
worn-out creature like herself. Sometimes, watching him, she felt more
sorry for him than even for herself; and then, seeing she looked a less
miserable and ugly woman, he did not shrink from her as usual.

He did not now. "Nurse--dear nurse," said he, "I don't mean to vex you,
but tell me what is a king? shall I ever be one?"

When she began to think less of herself and more of the child, the
woman's courage increased. The idea came to her--what harm would it be,
even if he did know his own history? Perhaps he ought to know it--for
there had been various ups and downs, usurpations, revolutions, and
restorations in Nomansland, as in most other countries. Something might
happen--who could tell? Changes might occur. Possibly a crown would
even yet be set upon those pretty, fair curls--which she began to think
prettier than ever when she saw the imaginary coronet upon them.

She sat down, considering whether her oath, never to "say a word" to
Prince Dolor about himself, would be broken if she were to take a
pencil and write what was to be told. A mere quibble--a mean, miserable