So the Little Princess kissed the globe, and from the place where her lips touched it, a stream of water trickled down. As it touched the feet of each statue, the marble softened to flesh and blood, and the breath came back to it until all of the Prince's train were alive again; but as for the Wizard, the water could not pass the gold thread, so there he sits until this day--unless some busybody has untied the magic knot. Then the fairy flew away, singing a low, happy song. When the Prince and the Princess came to the Garden, there was a wedding which lasted a month, and then they rode off toward the west. After they had gone, the Queen whispered to the Lady-in-waiting, "You see what careful parents can do! The first fairy godmother was quite wrong about the Prince of the Black Heart!" But at that very moment, the Prince had bared his arm to pluck a water-flower, as they rested beside the way. "What is that black mark on your arm?" asked the Princess. "Oh," said the Prince, laughing, "that is just a scar I have borne from birth. It is in the shape of a heart, and so, for a jest, my people call me the Prince of the Black Heart." "Black Heart, indeed!" cried the Little Princess, angrily. And that is the end of the story, for if you have no fear in your heart, black magic is no such great thing after all. But if any old fogy should wag his gray beard and say there is not a word of truth in it, you may be very sure that he came to fairyland at the narrow place, and never saw it at all. So you may just smile at him, for there is one thing, at least, that you know more about than he does! [Illustration] MOPSA THE FAIRY RETOLD FROM JEAN INGELOW "_For he that hath his own world Hath many worlds more._" A boy, whom I knew very well, was once going through a meadow which was full of buttercups. He sat down by an old hawthorn hedge which was covered with blossoms, and took out a slice of plum-cake for his lunch. While the boy was eating, he observed that this hedge was very high and thick, and that there was a great hollow in the trunk of the old thorn-tree, and he heard a twittering as if there was a nest somewhere inside. So he thrust his head in, twisted himself around, and looked up. After getting used to the dim light in the hollow of the tree, he saw, a good way above his head, a curious nest. It was about three times as large as a goldfinch's. Just then he thought he heard some little voices cry, "Jack, Jack!" "I must get near," said the boy. So he began to wriggle and twist himself up, and just as he reached the top three heads which had been peeking over the edge of the nest suddenly popped down again. "Those heads had no beaks, and the things have no feathers," said Jack, as he stood on tip-toe and poked in one of his fingers.