ness had been in her own heart—in the gladness which, even under the harshest circumstances, seems inseparable from childhood.
"And, so she will leave me—her mother left me before," said the old woman, "and you, rich and insolent that you are, think that the child of my old age is to be taken from me for a few fair words, and a few pieces of gold. Little do you imagine how sad it will be to sit under this old tree alone; but it matters not, all are ungrateful alike. I do not know whether curses have power; I shall have plenty of time to make them during next winter’s desolate evenings."
Sophie startled at the aged woman’s vehemence, and Mimi, trembling, clung to the folds of her robe. For an instant, the Princess hesitated, but the fear painted on the child’s face determined her.
"I meant no offence," said she, in her own sweet voice, "I have been thoughtless in asking you to trust your child to a stranger; but I will be kind to her, very kind, and perhaps she may teach me how to aid yourself."
The look, the manner, touched the old woman, and her harsh features relaxed into an expression of the deepest sadness. "It was I who was wrong," exclaimed she, "I ought to thank God that the orphan has found a friend. Little enough have I to give her, but when I am gone she must starve. So take her, lady, and I can die by myself;" and the crone turned away, and began spinning. But the Princess saw there were large tears in the eyes too proud to shed them.
"Shall I leave her with you," said Sophie.
"No;" returned the other, and the child from whose face the light had vanished suddenly almost hid herself in the Princess' robe. "Do you not see that the creature clings to you, a stranger—you, who have youth, beauty, and gold, and the instinct of childhood teaches a selfish adherence to them.
