"That is quite true," she said. "I am a stranger. Do you know that being a stranger is the hardest thing that can happen to any one in all this world?" "Then why don't you open your doors, invite your neighbours in, go to see them, and stop your father from saying such dreadful things?" "They are not my doors," she said, "and could you keep your father from saying anything he chooses?" I stood and blinked at her. Of course I wouldn't even dare try that. "I'm so sorry," was all I could think to say. I couldn't ask her to come to our house. I knew no one wanted her. But if I couldn't speak for the others, surely I might for myself. I let go the willows and went to the door. The Princess arose and sat on the seat Laddie had made for the Queen's daughter. It was an awful pity to tell her she shouldn't sit there, for I had my doubts if the real, true Princess would be half as lovely when she came--if she ever did. Some way the Princess, who was not a Princess, appeared so real, I couldn't keep from becoming confused and forgetting that she was only just Pamela Pryor. Already the lovely lights had gone from her face until it made me so sad I wanted to cry, and I was no easy cry-baby either. If I couldn't offer friendship for my family I would for myself. "You may call me Little Sister, if you like," I said. "I won't be a stranger." "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."