“They grow so slow,” the Prince would say, wrinkling up his handsome forehead.  “I expected to have a bushelful of new toys every month; and not one have I had yet.  And these stingy old Monks say I can only have my usual Christmas share anyway, nor can I pick them out myself.  I never saw such a stupid place to stay in in my life.  I want to have my velvet tunic on and go home to the palace and ride on my white pony with the silver tail, and hear them all tell me how charming I am.”  Then the Prince would crook his arm and put his head on it and cry.

Peter pitied him, and tried to comfort him, but it was not of much use, for the Prince got angry because he was not discontented as well as himself.

Two weeks before Christmas everything in the garden was nearly ready to be picked.  Some few things needed a little more December sun, but everything looked perfect.  Some of the Jack-in-the-boxes would not pop out quite quick enough, and some of the jumping-Jacks were hardly as limber as they might be as yet; that was all.  As it was so near Christmas the Monks were engaged in their holy exercises in the chapel for the greater part of the time, and only went over the garden once a day to see if everything was all right.

The Prince and Peter were obliged to be there all the time.  There was plenty of work for them to do; for once in a while something would blow over, and then there were the penny-trumpets to keep in tune; and that was a vast sight of work.

One morning the Prince was at one end of the garden straightening up some wooden soldiers which had toppled over, and Peter was in the wax doll bed dusting the dolls.  All of a sudden he heard a sweet little voice:  “O, Peter!” He thought at first one of the dolls was talking, but they could not say anything but papa and mamma; and had the merest apologies for voices anyway.  “Here I am, Peter!” and there was a little pull at his sleeve.  There was his little sister.  She was not any taller than the dolls around her, and looked uncommonly like the prettiest, pinkest-cheeked, yellowest-haired ones; so it was no wonder that Peter did not see her at first.  She stood there poising herself on her crutches, poor little thing, and smiling lovingly up at Peter.

“Oh, you darling!” cried Peter, catching her up in his arms.  “How did you get in here?”

“I stole in behind one of the Monks,” said she.  “I saw him going up the street past our house, and I ran out and kept behind him all the way.  When he opened the gate I whisked in too, and then I followed him into the garden.  I’ve been here with the dollies ever since.”

“Well,” said poor Peter, “I don’t see what I am going to do with you, now you are here.  I can’t let you out again; and I don’t know what the Monks will say.”

“Oh, I know!” cried the little girl gayly.  “I’ll stay out here in the garden.  I can sleep in one of those beautiful dolls’ cradles over there; and you can bring me something to eat.”