‘“Speak of angels, and you hear the rustling of their wings,” you mean,’ he said.
‘Thank you for the compliment, if it was meant for me,’ said the Princess.
‘Oh! don’t mention it – it’s nothing when you’re used to it,’ said Treblo, who, to tell the truth, seemed rather confused.
‘And are you used to calling young ladies angels?’ said his father sharply. ‘I suppose it’s some of the foreign manners you’ve learnt.’
‘Suppose we change the subject,’ retorted his son, and the subject was changed.
Ernalie retired again. She wanted to look after the dinner, so that it might not be late, and so nothing else in particular happened, for Treblo went round the farm with his father, and Araminta went into the kitchen to help Ernalie with the dinner. When the goose was turning on the spit, and the apple-tart had been put into the oven, the Princess had time to ask some questions about Treblo, and the Queen told her that he had been sent out of the way by Mumkie, in order that he might not attempt to put his father on the throne again; but after seven years he had come back safe, having had all sorts of adventures, and he now felt quite confident that he would be able to restore his father, for he was very popular with the army that had just returned from the war, and as to the people of the town, they cared very little who was king – in fact, they rather preferred Abbonamento to Mumkie. So Araminta was quite cheerful over it, for she much preferred living in a palace to living in a cottage.
Things went merrily through the day, and at dinner-time they drank the health of the King and Queen of the country, and altogether they seemed very happy. After dinner the King composed himself for his afternoon nap, and the Queen took down a volume of sermons and began to read. Ernalie went out to milk the cows and take the eggs from the hens’ nests. As to the Prince, he said he was going out to take a walk.
Before going out the Princess slipped up to her room, and took the eagle’s feather from the drawer where she had locked it up. She intended to try if she were invisible to the cows and poultry. So she put it in her sunbonnet and went out. It really seemed as if it was quite correct about the feather, for as soon as she got out of the door a bee ran right against her, and then a sparrow that was chirping on a rail allowed her to catch hold of it before it took any notice of her approach. However, she let it go, and it flew away, looking very astonished indeed, as you may imagine.
She reached the pasture, and opened the gate, calling to the cows:
‘Daisy, Daisy; come, Lightfoot; Cherry, come!’
The cows looked up from the ground, and came towards the gate, looking very astonished indeed; but when they got quite close and saw no one they stopped, and however much she called them they refused to move.
‘This will never do,’ she said; ‘I must really let them see me, or they won’t come.’
So she took the feather from her bonnet, and called again. This time the cows seemed quite ready to come, and they trotted along to the gate and crowded round her to be stroked. So she shut the gate again and told the cows to go on – for they understood her quite well – and then she went on after them. When they got to the dairy she milked them one after the other as they came in their regular order to the stool. She was milking the last one – Cherry, the best of them all – and she leaned her face against its side, and listened to the ‘thud, thud,’ of the milk as it streamed into the pail with a foam like the sea in a rage. She was in fact almost lulled to sleep by it, when she was startled by a voice behind her. It was so sudden that she almost upset the milk-pail in her fright.
‘It seems to be easy work milking,’ said the voice, and she looked round and saw it was the Prince, who had come quietly up behind, and was leaning over the fence at her back, looking on lazily at her.
‘Oh! how you startled me, Prince,’ she said.
‘Did I?’ he answered. ‘I am very sorry for that; but you needn’t call me Prince yet. I’m not a Prince, you see, and then you’re the adopted daughter of my parents, so you ought to call me your brother.’
‘Oh, really!’ said she. ‘However, you soon will be a Prince, and then I shan’t be able to call you brother, shall I?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you will be a Prince, and I am only a dairymaid.’
‘But you’re a Princess, aren’t you?’ he asked.
‘I was a Princess once,’ she said, with a sigh; ‘but – ’
‘You shall be again,’ he said.
‘But how do you know?’ she asked.
‘I know – oh, well, let’s change the subject. As I said before, it seems to be easy work milking. You might let me try?’
But she said:
‘It wouldn’t be any good. Cherry wouldn’t let any one but me touch her. Besides, I’ve just done, and I’m going to carry the pails to the house.’
‘Let me carry them for you?’ he said quickly.
‘Oh, thanks; if you’ll take two, I’ll take the other two, and thus we shall do it all in one journey,’ she answered.
So he did as he was told, and the pails were put safely in the house.
‘Now I must go and get the eggs,’ she said.
‘Can I be of any use?’ asked the Prince.
But she answered:
‘Oh no, there’s nothing for you to do, thanks.’
But he went with her all the same. I suppose he thought he might be of some use. So she let him hold the basket for her, and the eggs were also put safely in the house. Just, however, as he had put them down, a shrill whistle sounded twice from behind the garden hedge, and the Prince said:
‘Oh, that’s a friend of mine. You must excuse me for a few moments,’ and he went towards the hedge.
‘I wonder who his friend is,’ she said to herself. ‘I think I’ll put the feather on again and go after them. It would be a good way of trying my feather on men.’
So she took the feather out of her pocket again, and put it in her bonnet, and then ran after him. He had got over the fence some time before she reached it, but he was still in sight on the other side, and with him his friend was walking. He seemed to be a soldier, so far as she knew. They were talking very earnestly; but, from where she was, she was not able to hear what they said. So she too got over the fence, and went towards them; but she reached them rather too late to hear anything much that they did say. What she did hear was this, from the soldier:
‘Then you will come to-night at half-past twelve?’
‘Yes,’ answered the Prince.
‘We’ll have everything ready, and it will be easily done. If I were you I wouldn’t tell the King or Queen, it would only make them nervous, and we’re sure to succeed.’
‘Very well,’ said Treblo; ‘at half-past twelve.’
(‘Half-past twelve,’ thought the Princess; ‘what on earth is he going to do at that time of night? It sounds funny. I think I’ll go with him to look after him.’ For, you see, Ernalie was rather inquisitive, as you may have found out by this time.)
So the soldier went one way, and Treblo went back to the house whistling ‘When the king shall enjoy his own again.’
But the Princess ran on in front of him and reached the house first, so that by the time he was there she had taken the feather out of her bonnet and was quite visible again.
He came in quite naturally, as if nothing had happened, and the rest of the day went off quietly enough.
They went very early to bed at the farm, and the house was quiet by half-past eight.
Just before they went to bed Ernalie asked the Prince:
‘Do