"Here, Curdie," said his mother, "try my hand, and see what beast's paw lies inside it." "No, mother," answered Curdie, half-beseeching, half-indignant, "I will not insult my new gift by making pretence to try it. That would be mockery. There is no hand within yours but the hand of a true woman, my mother." "I should like you just to take hold of my hand, though," said his mother. "You are my son, and may know all the bad there is in me." Then at once Curdie took her hand in his. And when he had it, he kept it, stroking it gently with his other hand. "Mother," he said at length, "your hand feels just like that of the princess." "What! my horny, cracked, rheumatic old hand, with its big joints, and its short nails all worn down to the quick with hard work--like the hand of the beautiful princess! Why, my child, you will make me fancy your fingers have grown very dull indeed, instead of sharp and delicate, if you talk such nonsense. Mine is such an ugly hand I should be ashamed to show it to any but one that loved me. But love makes all safe--doesn't it, Curdie?" "Well, mother, all I can say is that I don't feel a roughness, or a crack, or a big joint, or a short nail. Your hand feels just and exactly, as near as I can recollect, and it's not now more than two hours since I had it in mine,--well, I will say, very like indeed to that of the old princess." "Go away, you flatterer," said his mother, with a smile that showed how she prized the love that lay beneath what she took for its hyperbole. The praise even which one cannot accept is sweet from a true mouth. "If that is all your new gift can do, it won't make a warlock of you," she added. "Mother, it tells me nothing but the truth," insisted Curdie, "however unlike the truth it may seem. It wants no gift to tell what anybody's outside hands are like. But by it I _know_ your inside hands are like the princess's."