Once upon a time there lived a girl who was kind the way some people are tall — all the way through, without even trying. Her mother had been just the same, but her mother was gone, and after a while her father married again.
His new wife arrived with two daughters of her own, and oh dear. The stepmother had a cold eye and a colder heart, and her daughters took after her. They couldn't bear how sweet the girl was — it made them look worse by comparison — so they set about making her life small. They gave her all the chores: the cooking, the scrubbing, the mending, the fetching. They took her pretty room and gave her a draughty corner of the attic. And in the evenings, when her work was finally done, the tired girl would sit by the warm fireplace among the cinders — which is why they smirked and called her Cinderella.
The name was meant to be unkind. She wore it anyway, and somehow made it lovely. That rather annoyed them too.
Now, one day, a royal messenger rode through town with a proclamation: the Prince was giving a grand ball, and everyone was invited.
The stepsisters went into a frenzy. For days it was gowns and ribbons and "Cinderella, curl my hair!" and "Cinderella, where are my slippers!" Cinderella helped them with all of it, beautifully, because that was her way. Then she asked, quietly, if she might come too.
The stepsisters laughed until they snorted. "You? At the palace? Covered in ash?" And off they swept in the carriage, leaving Cinderella alone on the doorstep, where — for once — she sat down and cried.
"Now then," said a voice, warm as fresh bread. "None of that, or we'll be late."
There in the garden stood a little round woman with kind eyes and a wand. "I'm your fairy godmother, dear. Dry your eyes and fetch me a pumpkin. The biggest one you can carry."
Puzzled, Cinderella fetched it. Tap! went the wand — and the pumpkin swelled and stretched and gleamed into a golden carriage.
"Six mice, please, from the trap in the pantry — don't dawdle." Tap! Tap! Six grey mice became six grey horses, stamping and tossing their manes. A whiskery old rat became a whiskery old coachman, who bowed extravagantly.
"But," whispered Cinderella, looking down at her patched apron, "I can't go like this."
"Can't you just," said the fairy godmother, and tap! — the apron swirled away into a gown the colour of moonlight, with tiny stars caught in the stitching, and on Cinderella's feet appeared two little slippers made of glass, sparkling like frost.
"Now listen carefully, dear heart," said the fairy godmother, helping her into the carriage. "The magic ends at midnight. On the last stroke of twelve, it's pumpkins and mice again. Midnight. Off you go!"
At the ball, the great doors opened, and the whole room turned. Nobody knew the radiant girl in the moonlight gown — her own stepsisters looked straight at her and hadn't the faintest idea. The Prince crossed the floor and asked her to dance, and then danced with no one else all night. He was funny, it turned out, and she was funnier, and the hours went by like minutes —
— which was precisely the problem. BONG, went the palace clock. Midnight!
"I have to go!" gasped Cinderella, and she ran — BONG — down the great staircase — BONG — so fast that one glass slipper flew right off her foot — BONG — and she didn't dare stop to fetch it. As the last stroke sounded, a golden carriage turned back into a pumpkin in the palace road, six horses shrank into six bewildered mice, and a girl in a patched apron slipped home through the shadows with one glass slipper hidden in her pocket.
The Prince found the other one on the stairs. He held it up to the light and made an announcement that echoed through the kingdom: he would marry the girl whose foot fit that slipper, and he would try it on every foot in the land if he had to.
He nearly did have to. Door to door went the royal party, and everywhere, toes were squashed and heels were wedged into that little slipper without any luck. At last they came to Cinderella's house, where the stepsisters pushed and shoved and squeezed — no use. The slipper sat there, patient as glass.
"May I try?" said a quiet voice from the doorway.
The stepsisters shrieked with laughter. The Prince's footman, who had his instructions — every foot — knelt down anyway.
The slipper fit like it had been poured onto her foot. And when Cinderella drew its twin from her pocket and slipped it on, the room went absolutely silent — except for the fairy godmother, who appeared in the corner with a tap! of her wand, turning the patched apron back into the moonlight gown, and remarking to no one in particular, "Well, I knew all along."
The Prince knew her the moment their eyes met — slipper or no slipper. The stepsisters, suddenly very interested in being kind, stammered out their sorries, and Cinderella — because it was her way — forgave them, which took more grace than the glass slippers ever did.
Then she rode to the palace, married her Prince, and lived happily ever after — proof, as your grandmother could have told you, that kindness keeps its shine long after midnight.