“I like to hear you laughing--then I laugh too. But I love best to hear you sing. That’s the way my queens sing when I’m thinking. Only they don’t laugh so much. You see the kings are off at the battles fighting, so they wouldn’t feel inclined.” “No, of course not. But do you really think that I could sing like a queen? Remember, Patches, I’m nothing--only Rags.” “I mean their voices are very sweet like yours. Of course they’re not like you in looks. They’re all tall and beautiful.” “And what am I?” “I don’t know,” he said, looking at her in a puzzled way. “I’ll explain you to Dr Quack, perhaps he’ll know. Anyway, you’re little to start with, and you’re very ragged. But--but,” with sudden impulsiveness, “I like you. I think you have a lovely face. When you looked through the door I didn’t think you were real at first. And I never knew you were in rags till you told me so.” “When my aunt thumps up the stairs, does it annoy you?” “No. It’s company. I like to imagine what she’s going up for. She goes up so often.” “It’s bad management on her part, I suppose, but I never interfere with her. She will be coming in to see you some time to-day. She makes the most lovely jelly. Do you like jelly?” “Yes. I like everything.” “You haven’t eaten all your cake.” “No; I’m keeping part for mother. Please don’t be angry. I can’t eat much at a time, and there isn’t much I can keep for her, and she often keeps things for me. Let’s put a saucer over it. She’ll be _so_ surprised, and I’ll make her guess who gave it me.” So saying, he wriggled down out of his chair--one leg being withered and short, as Marigold had noticed as he sat--and, with various contortions and a rough-made crutch, he sidled toward a cupboard for a saucer. He came back to his chair very exhausted, yet with a shy, sensitive expression on his face, and he turned half away from her as he spoke, and he said: “Dr Quack says he’s seen many a big soldier after a battle-field with less of a leg than I. Bullets, you know” (he had turned round to her); “and you never know your legs are off till after--and then! oh my! it hurts you fearful.” “It must do,” said Marigold sympathetically. He sat down, with an air of weariness suddenly overcoming the second’s animation. He closed his eyes and leant his dark head against the shabby cushion, and all the tenderness in Marigold’s heart made itself felt in the gentle hand with which she took his hot one. “I’ll sing you a song,” said she softly, “and you shall go to sleep. You’ll feel better after you’ve slept a while.” So then, sitting beside him on the stool beside the fire, she sang a gentle lullaby they sang the babies far away in Fairy Sky.