Beth wheeled in the doorway, where she had lingered to hear what Dirk would say to the plan for the morrow, and she joined the other two girls in telling him about it. “Well, that is nifty!” Dirk said. “We’ll have a great time; not better than when we ride with father that way, though! The prince is a nice chap. He’s a little like Bob Leonard. Wish he could go, too!” Alys laughed, but Natalie colored and said spiritedly: “I think Mr. Leonard is something like the prince, too. They’re both so real, not thinking of themselves at all. I believe Mr. Leonard’s more like a prince than the prince is.” “So are you--like a real sort, I mean,” approved Dirk warmly. “Well, if I’m going to make fudge----” Beth suggested and departed on her own implication that it was time she was off. Mrs. Hodgman was not merely willing to have Beth at work in her rooms: she welcomed her coming. Beth instinctively felt that the housekeeper had a sorrowful life-story lying behind her present. Kind as Aunt Alida was, the little girl suspected that Mrs. Hodgman was often lonely in a position that made her one with neither servants nor employer. To suspect a heartache and to try to relieve it were one with sweet Beth. Mrs. Hodgman had grown to love her dearly for the sunshine Beth did not forget to bring to her by frequent visits as she sat alone. Beth triumphantly made her fudge, beating it so long that she risked being late to dinner, but, as she explained to Mrs. Hodgman, “princely fudge must be the best ever.” It was. Aunt Alida gave her a captivating box for it and Beth went to bed early, to be ready and fresh for the Event. Natalie, Alys and Beth were waiting in their riding habits before half-past ten, trying not to fume and fuss that it was but half-past ten. The horses were waiting in the courtyard fifteen minutes ahead of time, Tim in charge. He was to ride with the party. Beth slipped down and tied a bow of wide satin ribbon on Trump’s bridle, on the head strap. It stood up between his ears precisely like a wide bow on the top of a small girl’s head; the effect intoxicated Beth. She kissed her pony frantically. “I put it there in honor of the prince--red, for the English flag, you know,” she explained to Tim. “But isn’t it just wildly becoming to him?” “Sure, a green bow would be the right one, Miss Beth,” said Tim, with his twinkle. “Trump’s for Home Rule and the lovely green isle, an’ it’s none of the English red he’d be wearin’, give him his choice in the matter: St. Patrick’s day just past, more by token.” “Oh, well, I suppose what he really likes is the red, white and blue, but I know he is glad to honor the prince’s flag to-day,” retorted Beth, tearing herself away from the pony, who cocked his eye after her under his bang and big red bow in a manner that made going difficult.