The Princess and the Goblin - George MacDonald (first ebook reader TXT) 📗

“You will ask her where you got it,” answered the lady smiling.

“I don’t see how I can do that.”

“You will, though.”

“Of course I will, if you say so. But, you know, I can’t pretend not to know.”

“Of course not. But don’t trouble yourself about it. You will see when the time comes.”

So saying, the lady turned, and threw the little ball into the rose fire.

“Oh, grandmother!” exclaimed Irene; “I thought you had spun it for me.”

“So I did, my child. And you’ve got it.”

“No; it’s burnt in the fire!”

The lady put her hand in the fire, brought out the ball, glimmering as before, and held it towards her. Irene stretched out her hand to take it, but the lady turned and, going to her cabinet, opened a drawer, and laid the ball in it.

“Have I done anything to vex you, grandmother?” said Irene pitifully.

“No, my darling. But you must understand that no one ever gives anything to another properly and really without keeping it. That ball is yours.”

“Oh! I’m not to take it with me! You are going to keep it for me!”

“You are to take it with you. I’ve fastened the end of it to the ring on your finger.”

Irene looked at the ring.

“I can’t see it there, grandmother,” she said.

“Feel⁠—a little way from the ring⁠—towards the cabinet,” said the lady.

“Oh! I do feel it!” exclaimed the princess. “But I can’t see it,” she added, looking close to her outstretched hand.

“No. The thread is too fine for you to see it. You can only feel it. Now you can fancy how much spinning that took, although it does seem such a little ball.”

“But what use can I make of it, if it lies in your cabinet?”

“That is what I will explain to you. It would be of no use to you⁠—it wouldn’t be yours at all if it did not lie in my cabinet. Now listen. If ever you find yourself in any danger⁠—such, for example, as you were in this same evening⁠—you must take off your ring and put it under the pillow of your bed. Then you must lay your finger, the same that wore the ring, upon the thread, and follow the thread wherever it leads you.”

“Oh, how delightful! It will lead me to you, grandmother, I know!”

“Yes. But, remember, it may seem to you a very roundabout way indeed, and you must not doubt the thread. Of one thing you may be sure, that while you hold it, I hold it too.”

“It is very wonderful!” said Irene thoughtfully. Then suddenly becoming aware, she jumped up, crying:

“Oh, grandmother! here have I been sitting all this time in your chair, and you standing! I beg your pardon.”

The lady laid her hand on her shoulder, and said:

“Sit down again, Irene. Nothing pleases me better than to see anyone sit in my chair. I am only too glad to stand so long as anyone will sit in it.”

“How kind of you!” said the princess, and sat down again.

“It makes me happy,” said the lady.

“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 arrange itself. I am afraid it is time for you to go.”

“Mightn’t I stay and sleep with you tonight, grandmother?”

“No, not tonight. If I had meant you to stay tonight, 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 downstairs.”

“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 anyone 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 I thought 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 confess I have sometimes been afraid about my children⁠—sometimes about you, Irene.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, grandmother! Tonight, I suppose, you mean.”

“Yes⁠—a little tonight; 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 I am blaming you for that. I dare say you could not 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