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When Becafico heard this, words cannot describe his astonishment and delight. He ran towards the prince, who sat moodily at the window. “Sir,” cried he, “only look through this hole, and you will see the original of the portrait which so fascinated you.”

The prince looked, and recognised at once his beloved princess. He would have died with joy, had he not believed himself deceived by some enchantment. He knocked at the door, Gilliflower opened it; he entered, and threw himself at the feet of Desiree. What followed–of explanations, vows, tears, and embraces–was never very clearly related, not even by Gilliflower and Becafico, who were present, but who considerately drew aside, and spent the time in conversing with one another. So passed the night; and anxiously they awaited for the dawn, to see whether the beautiful princess would again become a hind of the forest. But the day broke, grew clearer, brightened into sunrise, and the princess, with the prince sitting beside her, remained a beautiful maiden still. Then came a knock at the door, and there entered the little old woman, who had been such a kind hostess for all this while.

“The period of enchantment is ended, my children,” said she. “Go home and be happy.” And then they knew her as no longer the little old woman, but the Fairy Tulip, who had thus faithfully watched her charge.

So the bride and bridegroom returned to their capital, where the marriage was solemnized with all splendour, and, at Desiree’s request, Longthorn and her mother, who had been imprisoned by the old king’s order, were set free, with no further punishment than banishment to their own country, where they were to remain for life. As for the faithful Gilliflower, she stayed at court, with her beloved mistress, and became the wife of the equally faithful Becafico, who had served Prince Warrior as devotedly as she the Princess Desiree. The two were laden with wealth and honours, and shared the happiness of the other two lovers, which was as great as any mortal could desire. After their death the story of the White Hind of the Forest was commanded to be written down in the archives of the state, and thence it has been told in tradition, or sung in poetry, half over the world.