"But," said Irene, still puzzled, "won't the thread get in somebody's way and be broken, if the one end is fast to my ring and the other laid in your cabinet?" "You will find all that arranges itself. I am afraid it is time for you to go." "Mightn't I stay and sleep with you to-night, grandmother?" "No, not to-night. If I had meant you to stay to-night, I should have given you a bath; but you know everybody in the house is miserable about you, and it would be cruel to keep them so all night. You must go down stairs." "I'm so glad, grandmother, you didn't say--_go home_--for this is my home. Mayn't I call this my home?" "You may, my child. And I trust you will always think it your home. Now come. I must take you back without any one seeing you." "Please, I want to ask you one question more," said Irene. "Is it because you have your crown on that you look so young?" "No, child," answered her grandmother; "it is because I felt so young this evening, that I put my crown on. And it occurred to me that you would like to see your old grandmother in her best." "Why do you call yourself old? You're not old, grandmother." "I am very old indeed. It is so silly of people--I don't mean you, for you are such a tiny, and couldn't know better--but it is so silly of people to fancy that old age means crookedness and witheredness and feebleness and sticks and spectacles and rheumatism and forgetfulness! It is so silly! Old age has nothing whatever to do with all that. The right old age means strength and beauty and mirth and courage and clear eyes and strong painless limbs. I am older than you are able to think, and--" "And look at you, grandmother!" cried Irene, jumping up, and flinging her arms about her neck. "I won't be so silly again, I promise you. At least--I'm rather afraid to promise--but if I am, I promise to be sorry for it--I do. I wish I were as old as you, grandmother. I don't think you are ever afraid of anything." "Not for long, at least, my child. Perhaps by the time I am two thousand years of age, I shall, indeed, never be afraid of anything. But I must confess that I have sometimes been afraid about my children--sometimes about you, Irene." "Oh, I'm so sorry, grandmother!--To-night, I suppose, you mean." "Yes--a little to-night; but a good deal when you had all but made up your mind that I was a dream, and no real great-great-grandmother. You must not suppose that I am blaming you for that, I daresay it was out of your power to help it." "I don't know, grandmother," said the princess, beginning to cry. "I can't always do myself as I should like. And I don't always try. I'm very sorry anyhow." The lady stooped, lifted her in her arms, and sat down with her in her chair, holding her close to her bosom. In a few minutes the princess had sobbed herself to sleep. How long she slept, I do not know. When she came to herself she was sitting in her own high chair at the nursery table, with her doll's-house before her. CHAPTER XVI