"It was a long time before she got reconciled to walking. But the pain of learning it, was quite counterbalanced by two things, either of which would have been sufficient consolation. The first was, that the prince himself was her teacher; and the second, that she could tumble into the lake as often as she pleased. Still, she preferred to have the prince jump in with her; and the splash they made before, was nothing to the splash they made now. "The lake never sank again. In process of time, it wore the roof of the cavern quite through, and was twice as deep as before. "The only revenge the princess took upon her aunt, was to tread pretty hard on her gouty toe, the next time she saw her. But she was sorry for it the very next day, when she heard that the water had undermined her house, and that it had fallen in the night, burying her in its ruins; whence no one ever ventured to dig up her body. There she lies to this day. "So the prince and princess lived and were happy; and had crowns of gold, and clothes of cloth, and shoes of leather, and children of boys and girls, not one of whom was ever known, on the most critical occasion, to lose the smallest atom of his or her due proportion of gravity." * * * * * "Bravo!" "Capital!" "Very good indeed!" "Quite a success!" cried my complimentary friends. "I don't think the princess could have rowed, though--without gravity, you know," said the schoolmaster. "But she did," said Adela. "I won't have my uncle found fault with. It is a very funny, and a very pretty story." "What is the moral of it?" drawled Mrs. Cathcart, with the first syllable of _moral_ very long and very gentle. "That you need not be afraid of ill-natured aunts, though they are witches," said Adela. "No, my dear; that's not it," I said. "It is, that you need not mind forgetting your poor relations. No harm will come of it in the end." "I think the moral is," said the doctor, "that no girl is worth anything till she has cried a little." Adela gave him a quick glance, and then cast her eyes down. Whether he had looked at her I don't know. But I should think not.--Neither the clergyman nor his wife had made any remark. I turned to them. "I am afraid you do not approve of my poor story," I said. "On the contrary," replied Mr. Armstrong, "I think there is a great deal of meaning in it, to those who can see through its fairy-gates. What do you think of it, my dear?" "I was so pleased with the earnest parts of it, that the fun jarred upon me a little, I confess," said Mrs. Armstrong. "But I daresay that was silly." "I think it was, my dear. But you can afford to be silly sometimes, in a good cause." "You might have given us the wedding." said Mrs. Bloomfield. "I am an old bachelor, you see. I fear I don't give weddings their due," I answered. "I don't care for them--in stories, I mean." "When will you dine with us again?" asked the colonel. "When you please," answered the curate.