The palace was built on the shores of the loveliest lake in the world; and the princess loved this lake more than father or mother.  The root of this preference no doubt, although the princess did not recognise it as such, was, that the moment she got into it, she recovered the natural right of which she had been so wickedly deprived—­namely, gravity.  Whether this was owing to the fact that water had been employed as the means of conveying the injury, I do not know.  But it is certain that she could swim and dive like the duck that her old nurse said she was.  The manner in which this alleviation of her misfortune was discovered was as follows: 

One summer evening, during the carnival of the country, she had been taken upon the lake by the king and queen, in the royal barge.  They were accompanied by many of the courtiers in a fleet of little boats.  In the middle of the lake she wanted to get into the lord chancellor’s barge, for his daughter, who was a great favourite with her, was in it with her father.  Now though the old king rarely condescended to make light of his misfortune, yet, happening on this occasion to be in a particularly good humour, as the barges approached each other, he caught up the princess to throw her into the chancellor’s barge.  He lost his balance, however, and, dropping into the bottom of the barge, lost his hold of his daughter; not, however, before imparting to her the downward tendency of his own person, though in a somewhat different direction, for, as the king fell into the boat, she fell into the water.  With a burst of delighted laughter she disappeared into the lake.  A cry of horror ascended from the boats.  They had never seen the princess go down before.  Half the men were under water in a moment; but they had all, one after another, come up to the surface again for breath, when—­tinkle, tinkle, babble, and gush! came the princess’s laugh over the water from far away.  There she was, swimming like a swan.  Nor would she come out for king or queen, chancellor or daughter.  She was perfectly obstinate.

But at the same time she seemed more sedate than usual.  Perhaps that was because a great pleasure spoils laughing.  At all events, after this, the passion of her life was to get into the water, and she was always the better behaved and the more beautiful the more she had of it.  Summer and winter it was quite the same; only she could not stay so long in the water when they had to break the ice to let her in.  Any day, from morning to evening in summer, she might be descried—­a streak of white in the blue water—­lying as still as the shadow of a cloud, or shooting along like a dolphin; disappearing, and coming up again far off, just where one did not expect her.  She would have been in the lake of a night too, if she could have had her way; for the balcony of her window overhung a deep pool in it; and through a shallow reedy passage she could have swum out into the wide wet water, and no one would