So Phronsie, well pleased, gathered up the embyro robe of the Princess
and moved off, a bewildering tangle of silver spangles and floating
lace, drawn over the skirt of one of Mrs. Whitney's white satin gowns.

"There ought to be a dash of royal purple somewhere," said Polly,
sitting on the floor to see her go, and resting her tired hands on her
knees. "Now where shall I get it, and where shall I put it when I do
have it?" She wrinkled up her eyebrows a moment, lost in thought over
the momentous problem. "Oh! I know," and she sprang up exultingly.
"Phronsie, won't this be perfectly lovely? we can take that piece of
tissue paper Auntie gave you, and I can cut out little knots and sashes.
It is so soft, that in the gaslight they will look like silk. How fine!"

"Can't I be a Princess unless you sew up that purple paper?" asked
Phronsie, pausing suddenly to look over her shoulder in dismay at Polly.

"Why, yes, you can be, of course," said Polly, "but you can't be as good
a one as if you had a dash of royal purple about you. What's a bit of
tissue paper to the glory of being a Princess?" she cried, with
sparkling eyes. "Dear me, I wish I could be one."

"Well, you may have it, Polly," said Phronsie with a sigh, "and then
afterwards I'll rip it all off and smooth it out, and it will be almost
as good as new."

"I think there won't be much left of it when the play is over," cried
Polly with a laugh; "why, the dragons are going to carry you off to
their cave, you know, and you are to be rescued by the knight, just
think, Phronsie! You can't expect to have such perfectly delightful