Not to be asked was just what she wanted, that she might have a sort of reason for doing what she wished to do.

For somehow even the wickedest of creatures likes a pretext for doing the wrong thing.
Five fairies had one after the other given the child such gifts as each counted best, and the fifth had just stepped back to her place in the surrounding splendour of ladies and gentlemen, when, mumbling a laugh between her toothless gums, the wicked fairy hobbled out into the middle of the circle, and at the moment when the archbishop was handing the baby to the lady at the head of the nursery department of state affairs, addressed him thus, giving a bite or two to every word before she could part with it: "Please your Grace, I'm very deaf: would your Grace mind repeating the princess's name ?" "With pleasure, my good woman," said the archbishop, stooping to shout in her ear: "the infant's name is little Daylight." "And little daylight it shall be," cried the fairy, in the tone of a dry axle, "and little good shall any of her gifts do her.

For I bestow upon her the gift of sleeping all day long, whether she will or not.

Ha, ha! He, he! Hi, hi!" Then out started the sixth fairy, who, of course, the others had arranged should come after the wicked one, in order to undo as much as she might.
"If she sleep all day," she said, mournfully, "she shall, at least, wake all night." "A nice prospect for her mother and me!" thought the poor king; for they loved her far too much to give her up to nurses, especially at night, as most kings and queens do--and are sorry for it afterwards.
"You spoke before I had done," said the wicked fairy.

"That's against the law.