An hour later Princess Beauty and Prince Udo, who was not her brother, gazed into each other's eyes; and Beauty's last illusion went. "You've altered," she said slowly. "Yes, I'm not really much like a tortoise," said Udo humorously. "I meant since seven years ago. You're much stouter than I thought." "Time hasn't exactly stood still with you, you know, Beauty." "Yet you saw me every day, and went on loving me." "Well,--er----" He shuffled his feet and looked away. "_Didn't_ you?" "Well, you see--of course I wanted to get back, you see--and as long as you--I mean if we--if you thought we were in love with each other, then, of course, you were ready to help me. And so----" "You're quite old and bald. I can't think why I didn't notice it before." "Well, you wouldn't when I was a tortoise," said Udo pleasantly. "As tortoises go I was really quite a youngster. Besides, anyhow one never notices baldness in a tortoise." "I think," said Beauty, weighing her words carefully, "I think you've gone off a good deal in looks the last day or two." * * * * * Charming was home in time for dinner, and the next morning he was more popular than ever outside his family as he rode through the streets of the city. But Blunderbus lay dead in his Castle. You and I know that he was killed by the magic sword; yet somehow a strange legend grew up around his death. And ever afterwards in that country, when one man told his neighbour a more than ordinarily humorous anecdote, the latter would cry, in between the gusts of merriment, "Don't! You'll make me die of laughter!" And then he would pull himself together, and add with a sigh. "Like Blunderbus." XXI. THE SEASIDE NOVELETTE [MAY BE READ ON THE PIER] NO. XCVIII.--A SIMPLE ENGLISH GIRL CHAPTER I PRIMROSE FARM Primrose Farm stood slumbering in the sunlight of an early summer morn. Save for the gentle breeze which played in the tops of the two tall elms all Nature seemed at rest. Chanticleer had ceased his song; the pigs were asleep; in the barn the cow lay thinking. A deep peace brooded over the rural scene, the peace of centuries. Terrible to think that in a few short hours ... but perhaps it won't. The truth is I have not quite decided whether to have the murder in this story or in No. XCIX.--The Severed Thumb. We shall see. As her alarum clock (a birthday present) struck five, Gwendolen French sprang out of bed and plunged her face into the clump of nettles which grew outside her lattice window. For some minutes she stood there, breathing in the incense of the day; then dressing quickly she went down into the great oak-beamed kitchen to prepare breakfast for her father and the pigs. As she went about her simple duties she sang softly to herself, a song of love and knightly deeds. Little did she think that a lover, even at that moment, stood outside her door.