"Ah! yes, grandmother, I daresay. I'm sure you are right. But he'll believe now." "I don't know that," replied her grandmother. "Won't you, Curdie?" said Irene, looking round at him as she asked the question. He was standing in the middle of the floor, staring, and looking strangely bewildered. This she thought came of his astonishment at the beauty of the lady. "Make a bow to my grandmother, Curdie," she said. "I don't see any grandmother," answered Curdie, rather gruffly. "Don't see my grandmother when I'm sitting in her lap!" exclaimed the princess. "No I don't," said Curdie, almost sulkily. "Don't you see the lovely fire of roses--white ones amongst them this time?" asked Irene almost as bewildered as he. "No I don't," answered Curdie, almost sulkily. "Nor the blue bed? Nor the rose-colored counterpane? Nor the beautiful light, like the moon, hanging from the roof?" "You're making game of me, your royal Highness; and after what we have come through together this day, I don't think it is kind of you," said Curdie, feeling very much hurt. "Then what _do_ you see?" asked Irene, who perceived at once that for her not to believe him was at least as bad as for him not to believe her. "I see a big, bare garret-room--like the one in mother's cottage, only big enough to take the cottage itself in, and leave a good margin all round," answered Curdie. "And what more do you see?" "I see a tub, and a heap of musty straw, and a withered apple and a ray of sunlight coming through a hole in the middle of the roof, and shining on your head, and making all the place look a curious dusky brown. I think you had better drop it, princess, and go down to the nursery, like a good girl." "But don't you hear my grandmother talking to me?" asked Irene, almost crying. "No. I hear the cooing of a lot of pigeons. If you won't come down, I will go without you. I think that will be better anyhow, for I'm sure nobody who met us would believe a word we said to them. They would think we made it all up. I don't expect anybody but my own father and mother to believe me. They _know_ I wouldn't tell a story." "And yet _you_ won't believe _me_, Curdie?" expostulated the princess, now fairly crying with vexation, and sorrow at the gulf between her and Curdie. "No. I _can't_, and I can't help it," said Curdie, turning to leave the room. "What _shall_ I do, grandmother?" sobbed the princess, turning her face round upon the lady's bosom, and shaking with suppressed sobs. "You must give him time," said her grandmother; "and you must be content not to be believed for a while. It is very hard to bear; but I have had to bear it, and shall have to bear it many a time yet. I will take care of what Curdie thinks of you in the end. You must let him go now." "You are not coming, are you?" asked Curdie.