"Why how lovely!" cried the Princess.
You should have seen the dancing lights fly back to her eyes. Probably you won't believe this, but the first thing I knew I was beside her on the throne, her arm was around me, and it's the gospel truth that she hugged me tight. I just had sense enough to reach over and pick Laddie's letter from her fingers, and then I was on her side. I don't know what she did to me, but all at once I knew that she was dreadfully lonely; that she hated being a stranger; that she was sorry enough to cry because their house was one of mystery, and that she would open the door if she could.
"I like you," I said, reaching up to touch her curls.
I never had seen her that I did not want to. They were like I thought they would be. Father and Laddie and some of us had wavy hair, but hers was crisp—and it clung to your fingers, and wrapped around them and seemed to tug at your heart like it does when a baby grips you. I drew away my hand, and the hair stretched out until it was long as any of ours, and then curled up again, and you could see that no tins had stabbed into her head to make those curls. I began trying to single out one hair.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"I want to know if only one hair is strong enough to draw a drowning man from the water or strangle an unhappy one," I said.
"Believe me, no!" cried the Princess. "It would take all I have, woven into a rope, to do that."
"Laddie knows curls that just one hair of them is strong enough," I boasted.
"I wonder now!" said the Princess. "I think he must have been making poetry or telling Fairy tales."
"He was telling the truth," I assured her. "Father doesn't believe in Fairies, and mother laughs, but Laddie and I know. Do you believe in Fairies?"
"Of course I do!" she said.
"Then you know that this COULD be an Enchanted Wood?"
"I have found it so," said the Princess.
"And MAYBE this is a Magic Carpet?"
"It surely is a Magic Carpet."
"And you might be the daughter of the Queen? Your eyes are 'moonlit pools of darkness.' If only your hair were stronger, and you knew about making sunshine!"
"Maybe it is stronger than I think. It never has been tested. Perhaps I do know about making sunshine. Possibly I am as true as the wood and the carpet."
I drew away and stared at her. The longer I looked the more uncertain I became. Maybe her mother was the Queen. Perhaps that was the mystery. It might be the reason she didn't want the people to see her. Maybe she was so busy making sunshine for the Princess to bring to Laddie that she had no time to sew carpet rags, and to go to quiltings, and funerals, and make visits. It was hard to know what to think.
"I wish you'd tell me plain out if you are the Queen's daughter," I said. "It's most important. You can't have this letter unless I KNOW. It's the very first time Laddie ever trusted me with a letter, and I just can't give it to the wrong person."
"Then why don't you leave it where he told you?"
"But you have gone and found the place. You started to take it once; you would again, soon as I left."
"Look me straight in the eyes, Little Sister," said the Princess softly. "Am I like a person who would take anything that didn't belong to her?"
"No!" I said instantly.
"How do you think I happened to come to this place?"
"Maybe our woods are prettier than yours."
"How do you think I knew where the letter was?"
I shook my head.
"If I show you some others exactly like the one you have there, then will you believe that is for me?"
"Yes," I answered.
I believed it anyway. It just SEEMED so, the better you knew her. The Princess slipped her hand among the folds of the trailing pale green skirt, and from a hidden pocket drew other letters exactly like the one I held. She opened one and ran her finger along the top line and I read, "To the Princess," and then she pointed to the ending and it was merely signed, "Laddie," but all the words written between were his writing. Slowly I handed her the letter.
"You don't want me to have it?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. "I want you to have it if Laddie wrote it for you—but mother and father won't, not at all."
"What makes you think so?" she asked gently.
"Don't you know what people say about you?"
"Some of it, perhaps."
"Well?"
"Do you think it is true?"
"Not that you're stuck up, and hateful and proud, not that you don't want to be neighbourly with other people, no, I don't think that. But your father said in our home that there was no God, and you wouldn't let my mother in when she put on her best dress and went in the carriage, and wanted to be friends. I have to believe that."
"Yes, you can't help believing that," said the Princess.
"Then can't you see why you'll be likely to show Laddie the way to find trouble, instead of sunshine?"
"I can see," said the Princess.
"Oh Princess, you won't do it, will you?" I cried.
"Don't you think such a big man as Laddie can take care of himself?" she asked, and the dancing lights that had begun to fade came back. "Over there," she pointed through our woods toward the southwest, "lives a man you know. What do his neighbours call him?"
"Stiff-necked Johnny," I answered promptly.
"And the man who lives next him?"
"Pinch-fist Williams."
Her finger veered to another neighbour's.
"The girls of that house?"
"Giggle-head Smithsons."
"What about the man who lives over there?"
"He beats his wife."
"And the house beyond?"
"Mother whispers about them. I don't know."
"And the woman on the hill?"
"She doesn't do anything but gussip and make every one trouble."
"Exactly!" said the Princess. "Yet most of these people come to your house, and your family goes to theirs. Do you suppose people they know nothing about are so much worse than these others?"
"If your father will take it back about God, and your mother will let people in—my mother and father both wanted to be friends, you know."
"That I can't possibly do," she said, "but maybe I could change their feelings toward me."
"Do it!" I cried. "Oh, I'd just love you to do it! I wish you would come to our house and be friends. Sally is pretty as you are, only a different way, and I know she'd like you, and so would Shelley. If Laddie writes you letters and comes here about sunshine, of course he'd be delighted if mother knew you; because she loves him best of any of us. She depends on him most as much as father."
"Then will you keep the secret until I have time to try—say until this time next year?"
"I'll keep it just as long as Laddie wants me to."
"Good!" said the Princess. "No wonder Laddie thinks you the finest Little Sister any one ever had."
"Does Laddie think that?" I asked
"He does indeed!" said the Princess.
"Then I'm not afraid to go home," I said. "And I'll bring his letter the next time he can't come."
"Were you scared this time?"