quibble. But then she was a miserable woman, more to be pitied than
scorned.

After long doubt, and with great trepidation, she put her fingers to her
lips, and taking the Prince's slate--with the sponge tied to it, ready
to rub out the writing in a minute--she wrote:

"You are a king."

Prince Dolor started. His face grew pale, and then flushed all over; he
held himself erect. Lame as he was, anybody could see he was born to be
a king.

"Hush!" said the nurse, as he was beginning to speak. And then, terribly
frightened all the while,--people who have done wrong always are
frightened,--she wrote down in a few hurried sentences his history. How
his parents had died--his uncle had usurped his throne, and sent him to
end his days in this lonely tower.

"I, too," added she, bursting into tears. "Unless, indeed, you could get
out into the world, and fight for your rights like a man. And fight for
me also, my Prince, that I may not die in this desolate place."

"Poor old nurse!" said the boy compassionately. For somehow, boy as he
was, when he heard he was born to be a king, he felt like a man--like a
king--who could afford to be tender because he was strong.

He scarcely slept that night, and even though he heard his little lark
singing in the sunrise, he barely listened to it. Things more serious
and important had taken possession of his mind.