He was ill no longer.
He then invited his friends and acquaintances to a third ball, which was to be even more magnificent than the first two.
The queen became ill, and when she felt that she was about to die, she called the king to her side and asked him not to marry anyone following her death, unless she was just as beautiful as she, and unless her hair was just as golden as hers.
Poor All-Kinds-of-Fur lived like this for a long time.
She is not, indeed, the fruit of my womb, but I nourished her at these breasts.
Soon there was another ball.