Page:On a pincushion.djvu/220

Nothing but the bright sparkling sea all round for miles. He laughed aloud for pleasure, and would have been quite happy, only for a thought—a naughty little thought—which would keep coming into his mind, and which grew and grew in spite of himself. He put up his hands to his head to keep it out, but there it was all the same, and there it remained. It was this—Why should he not ask the old man something for himself, instead of asking him about the Princess at all? Who would ever know? Why should he not ask him to make him straight and well? How pleased his mother would be if she came home that night to find her little boy a cripple no longer. How easy it would be to invent something to tell the Princess, and no one else would tell the truth. He knew it was naughty. He had promised, and he ought to keep his promise, and he thought of the Princess’s pale face and the Prince’s sad voice. And then he thought of his mother, and his own dull home, and could scarcely keep from crying.

“Listen!” said the wind-fairy. “Don’t you hear some one singing?”

Jack listened, and heard a sad sweet voice