“I can’t think of a single thing for him to do—­” began Betty.

“You can if you try hard enough,” insisted Lloyd.

Betty sighed hopelessly, and turned to her lunch in silence.  She wanted to please the Little Colonel, but it seemed impossible to her to give Hero a part without spoiling the entertainment.

“Maybe some of the books in the ship’s library might help you,” said Mr. Sherman, who had been an amused listener.  “I’ll look over some of them for you.”

Later in the day he came up to Betty where she stood leaning against the deck railing.  He laid a book upon it, open at a picture of seven white swans, “Do you remember this?” he asked.  “The seven brothers who were changed to swans, and the good sister who wove a coat for each one out of flax she spun from the churchyard nettles?  The magic coats gave them back their human forms.  Maybe you can use the same idea, and have your prince changed into a dog for awhile.”

“Oh, thank you!” she cried.  “I’d forgotten that story.  I am sure it will help.”

He walked away, leaving her poring over the picture, but presently, as he paced the deck, he felt her light touch on his arm, and turned to see her glowing little face looking up into his.

“I’ve got it!” she cried.  “The picture made me think of the very thing.  I had been fumbling with a tangled skein, trying to find a place to begin unwinding.  Now you have given me the starting thread, and it all begins to smooth out beautifully.  I’m going for pencil and paper now, to write it all down before I forget.”

That pencil and note-book were her constant companions the rest of the voyage.  Sometimes Lloyd, coming upon her suddenly, would hear her whispering a list of rhymes such as more, core, pour, store, shore, before, or creature, teacher, feature, at which they would both laugh and Betty exclaim, hopelessly, “I can’t find a word to fit that place.”  At other times Lloyd passed her in respectful silence, for she knew by the rapt look on Betty’s face that the mysterious business of verse-making was proceeding satisfactorily, and she dared not interrupt.

The day they sighted land, Lloyd exclaimed:  “Oh, I can hardly wait to get home!  I’ve had a perfectly lovely summah, and I’ve enjoyed every mile of the journey, but the closah I get to Locust the moah it seems to me that the very nicest thing my wondah-ball can unroll (except givin’ me Hero, of co’se) is the goin’ back home.”

“Your wonder-ball,” repeated Betty, who knew the birthday story.  “That gives me an idea.  The princess shall have a wonder-ball in the play.”

Lloyd laughed.  “I believe that’s all you think about nowadays, Betty.  Put up yoah scribblin’ for awhile and come and watch them swing the trunks up out of the hold.  We’re almost home, Betty Lewis, almost home!”

CHAPTER XII.

HOME AGAIN