“You are better to cuddle than even my white kitten, I think. Promise me that you will never go away.”
“I must; but I will leave a present behind me,--something as good as myself to amuse you,--something that will take you wherever you want to go, and show you all that you wish to see.”
The Prince's countenance fell. “I don't want a cloak, for I never go out. Sometimes nurse hoists me on to the roof, and carries me round by the parapet; but that is all. I can't walk, you know, as she does.”
“The more reason why you should ride; and besides, this traveling-cloak----”
There sounded outside the room door a heavy step and a grumpy voice, and a rattle of plates and dishes.
“It's my nurse, and she is bringing my dinner; but I don't want dinner at all--I only want you. Will her coming drive you away, godmother?”
“Perhaps; but only for a little while. Never mind; all the bolts and bars in the world couldn't keep me out. I'd fly in at the window, or down through the chimney. Only wish for me, and I come.”
“Thank you,” said Prince Dolor, but almost in a whisper, for he was very uneasy at what might happen next. His nurse and his godmother--what would they say to one another? how would they look at one another?--two such different faces: one harsh-lined, sullen, cross, and sad; the other sweet and bright and calm as a summer evening before the dark begins.
When the door was flung open, Prince Dolor shut his eyes, trembling all over; opening them again, he saw he need fear nothing--his lovely old godmother had melted away just like the rainbow out of the sky, as he had watched it many a time. Nobody but his nurse was in the room.
“What a muddle your Royal Highness is sitting in,” said she sharply. “Such a heap of untidy books; and what's this rubbish?” knocking a little bundle that lay beside them.
“Oh, nothing, nothing--give it me!” cried the Prince, and, darting after it, he hid it under his pinafore, and then pushed it quickly into his pocket. Rubbish as it was, it was left in the place where she sat, and might be something belonging to her--his dear, kind godmother, whom already he loved with all his lonely, tender, passionate heart.
It was, though he did not know this, his wonderful traveling-cloak.