“(I don’t know—the writer doesn’t say)—until the spell should be broken, when she would be free. She was the most exquisite vision that ever burst upon human sight. Not only were her features perfect, and her hair a rippling cascade of gold, but her dress was grace and beauty combined.” “Then it wasn’t one of _this_ season’s models!” ejaculated Ursula, “hence it must have been out-of-date. All the same, I’d like to know who was her dressmaker. Did they think to mention the name?” (“No, that is not stated.)—She used to spend her days listening to the wolves who congregated all around the castle howling and gnashing their horrid fangs, till one day an honest, sturdy forester approached, and with one fell swoop slew dozens of them. Whereupon the Princess Elizabeth—for such was her name—opened the door and cried, ‘Welcome, deliverer!’ and in less time than it takes me to tell you, that aged and decrepit nurse had prepared, all unaided, a sumptuous wedding banquet, while gorgeously apparelled guests arrived in battalions from nowhere. Then, just as they were about to be married, the honest, sturdy forester, no longer able to conceal his identity, confessed that he was indeed the Prince.” “What Prince?” inquired the interrupter again. “I don’t know, and the writer doesn’t say, and I wish you would remember, Ursula, that in the larger proportion of MSS. sent to editors it is customary for the writers to omit the essential details!” “Then I’d just as soon go for a walk as hear any more,” she said with decision. Whereupon we got into big coats and thick gloves and tied on our hats with motor scarfs, I don’t mean the filmy wisps one wears when motoring in the park, but those large, solid, thick, brown, woollen scarves that look as though they had been made from a horse-blanket—the sort that the West End window dresser in desperation labels “dainty!” But the air was bitingly cold, and we were so high up among the hills, that no wraps would have been too warm that day. Then we started off, after I had said a final word to Eileen about the necessity for keeping the kettle boiling, as we shouldn’t be gone long. She had assured me many times already that she wasn’t the least bit nervous about being left alone—rather liked it, in fact. She was blissfully engaged at the moment in trying to construct a “dainty evening camisole” (as per some penny weekly she had bought coming down) out of the satin ribbon and lace from Virginia’s last year’s hat. The small white dog with the brown ears accompanied us to the gate, but decided that, with the thermometer just where it was at that moment, home-keeping hearts were happiest; so he promptly returned to the hearthrug. The sun had disappeared, but there was still light on the hill-tops, though the valley below was fast settling down to darkness. Virginia suggested the lantern, but I thought we should not need it, more especially as a moon was due immediately. So we set off at a swinging pace.