was gone. It vanished, like the poetry in a dream, as fast as it came. In after years, however, she would sometimes fancy that snatches of melody suddenly rising in her brain must be little phrases and fragments of the air of that song; and the very fancy would make her happier, and abler to do her duty.
How long she lay in the water she did not know. It seemed a long time—not from weariness but from pleasure. But at last she felt the beautiful hands lay hold of her, and through the gurgling water she was lifted out into the lovely room. The lady carried her to the fire, and sat down with her in her lap, and dried her tenderly with the softest towel. It was so different from Lootie’s drying. When the lady had done, she stooped to the fire, and drew from it her nightgown, as white as snow.
“How delicious!” exclaimed the princess. “It smells of all the roses in the world, I think.”
When she stood up on the floor she felt as if she had been made over again. Every bruise and all weariness were gone, and her hands were soft and whole as ever.
“Now I am going to put you to bed for a good sleep,” said her grandmother.
“But what will Lootie be thinking? And what am I to say to her when she asks me where I have been?”
“Don’t trouble yourself about it. You will find it all come right,” said her grandmother, and laid her into the blue bed, under the rosy counterpane.
“There is just one thing more,” said Irene. “I am a little anxious about Curdie. As I brought him into the house, I ought to have seen him safe on his way home.”