The Prince whistled softly. "No," he said then, "I didn't wear _them_ clo'es to-day. You see, my mother--" "The Queen," she interrupted, "you mean the Queen?" "You bet I do! She's a reg'lar-builter! Well, she don't like to have me wearin' out my best clo'es every day," he said, gravely. "No," eagerly, "nor mine don't. Queen, I mean,--but she isn't a mother, mercy, no! I only wear silk dresses every day, not my velvet ones. This silk one is getting a little faded." She released one hand to smooth the dress wistfully. Then she remembered her painfully practised little speech and launched into it hurriedly. "Hear, O Prince. Verily, verily, I did not know which color you'd like to find me dressed in--I mean _arrayed_. I beseech thee to excuse--oh, _pardon_, I mean--" But she got no further. She could endure the delay no longer, and her eyes flew open. She had known his step; she had known his voice. She knew his face. It was terribly freckled, and she had not expected freckles on the face of the Prince. But the merry, honest eyes were the Prince's eyes. Her gaze wandered downward to the home-made clothes and bare, brown legs, but without uneasiness. The Prince had explained about his clothes. Suddenly, with a shy, glad little cry, the Princess held out her hands to him. The royal blood flooded the face of the Prince and filled in all the spaces between its little, gold-brown freckles. But the Prince held out his hand to her. His lips formed for words and she thought he was going to say, "Verily, Princess, thou hast found favor--" "Le' 's go fishin'," the Prince said. Chapter VIII The Promise Murray was not as one without hope, for there was the Promise. The remembrance of it set him now to exulting, in an odd, restrained little way, where a moment ago he had been desponding. He clasped plump, brown little hands around a plump, brown little knee and swayed gently this way and that. "Maybe she'll begin with my shoes," Murray thought, and held his foot quite still. He could almost feel light fingers unlacing the stubbed little shoe; Sheelah's fingers were rather heavy and not patient with knots. Hers would be patient--there are some things one is certain of. "When she unbuttons me," Murray mused on, sitting absolutely motionless, as if she were unbuttoning him now--"when she unbuttons me I shall hold in my breath--this way," though he could hardly have explained why. She had never unlaced or unbuttoned him. Always, since he was a little, breathing soul, it had been Sheelah. It had never occurred to him that he loved Sheelah, but he was used to her. All the mothering he had ever experienced had been the Sheelah kind--thorough enough, but lacking something; Murray was conscious that it lacked something. Perhaps--perhaps to-night he should find out what. For to-night not Sheelah, but his mother, was going to undress him and put him to bed. She had promised.