"You may if you will," said the old lady. "But I must put you to one trial--not a very hard one, I hope.--This night week you must come back to me. If you don't, I do not know when you may find me again, and you will soon want me very much." "Oh! please, don't let me forget." "You shall not forget. The only question is whether you will believe I am anywhere--whether you will believe I am anything but a dream. You may be sure I will do all I can to help you to come. But it will rest with yourself after all. On the night of next Friday, you must come to me. Mind now." "I will try," said the princess. "Then good night," said the old lady, and kissed the forehead which lay in her bosom. In a moment more the little princess was dreaming in the midst of the loveliest dreams--of summer seas and moonlight and mossy springs and great murmuring trees, and beds of wild flowers with such odors as she had never smelled before. But after all, no dream could be more lovely than what she had left behind when she fell asleep. In the morning she found herself in her own bed. There was no handkerchief or anything else on her hand, only a sweet odor lingering about it. The swelling had all gone down; the prick of the brooch had vanished:--in fact her hand was perfectly well. CHAPTER XII A SHORT CHAPTER ABOUT CURDIE CURDIE spent many nights in the mine. His father and he had taken Mrs. Peterson into the secret, for they knew mother could hold her tongue, which was more than could be said of all the miners' wives. But Curdie did not tell her that every night he spent in the mine, part of it went in earning a new red petticoat for her. Mrs. Peterson was such a nice good mother! All mothers are more or less, but Mrs. Peterson was nice and good all _more_ and no _less_. She made a little heaven in that poor cottage on the hillside--for her husband and son to go home to out of the dreary earth in which they worked. I doubt if the princess was very much happier even in the arms of her huge great-grandmother than Peter and Curdie were in the arms of Mrs. Peterson. True, her hands were hard, and chapped, and large, but it was with work for them; and therefore in the sight of the angels, her hands were so much the more beautiful. And if Curdie worked hard to get her a petticoat, she worked hard every day to get him comforts which he would have missed much more than she would a new petticoat even in winter. Not that she and Curdie ever thought of how much they worked for each other: that would have spoiled everything.