The trumpets sounded and the music struck up, and the dance commenced; but if Cinderella’s beauty, elegant figure, and the splendor of her dress, had before drawn the attention of the whole room, the astonishment at her dancing was still greater.

Gracefulness seemed to play in all her motions; the airy lightness with which she floated along—­as buoyant as thistle-down—­drew forth a general murmur of admiration.  The hall rang with the loudest acclamations of applause, and the company, all in one voice, pronounced her the most elegant creature that had ever been seen.  And this was the little girl who had passed a great part of her life in the kitchen, and had always been called a “Cinder-wench.”

When the dance was ended, a magnificent feast was served up, consisting of all delicacies:  so much was the young prince engaged with Cinderella, that he did not eat one morsel of the supper.

Cinderella drew near her sisters, and frequently spoke to them; and in her goodness of heart she offered them the delicacies which she had received from the prince:  but they did not know she was their sister.

When Cinderella heard the clock strike three-quarters past eleven, she made a low courtesy to the whole assembly and retired in haste.

You see how fortune befriends the good-hearted, and even out of such unpromising material as a pumpkin and mice, can make a coach and six, with which to honor her worthy favorite.  So Cinderella goes to the ball; but to teach her to be diligent and faithful in her engagements, her faery godmother enjoins upon her that she return home at twelve.  Native beauty and grace attract the princely heart; and while the king’s son pays no heed to her pretentious sisters, he is all grace and condescension to little Cinderella.  Obedient to her engagement with her godmother, she returns in all the splendor and honor of the coach and six.

On reaching home, she found her godmother; and after thanking her for the treat she had enjoyed, she ventured to express a wish to return to the ball on the following evening, as the prince had requested her to do.

She was still relating to her godmother all that had happened at court, when her two sisters knocked at the door.  Cinderella went and let them in, pretending to yawn and stretch herself, and rub her eyes, and saying, “How late you are!” just as if she was waked up out of a nap, though, truth to say, she had never felt less disposed to sleep in her life.  “If you had been to the ball,” said one of the sisters, “you would not have thought it late.  There came the most beautiful princess ever seen, who loaded us with polite attentions, and gave us oranges and citrons.”

Cinderella could scarcely contain her delight, and inquired the name of the princess.  But they replied that nobody knew her name, and that the king’s son was in great trouble about her, and would give the world to know who she could be.  “Is she, then, so very beautiful?” said Cinderella, smiling.  “Oh, my! how I should like to see her!  Oh, do, my Lady Javotte, lend me the yellow dress you wear every day, that I may go to the ball and have a peep at this wonderful princess.”  “A likely story, indeed!” cried Javotte, tossing her head disdainfully, “that I should lend my clothes to a dirty Cinderella like you!”