“The drowsy flower-bells nod and sleep, The sun has gone to his cradle, The tiny stars all drowsily peep At the moon now creeping over the deep As fast as she is able. The little green men come out of the woods, The pink men slide from the clover, And all the elves in little blue hoods Patter along as the moon now floods The land all over and over. The sun is down, and the moon is up, And all the world is sleeping; The fairies drink from a golden cup, And sing sweet songs as they daintily sup In the moon’s all-powerful keeping. And you, my flower-bud, while they sing, Nestle against my bosom, Sleep! and smile through the magic ring That the fairies every evening fling O’er my love, my sweet home blossom.” So Marigold’s sweet voice went softly up and down the old-world monotone, and she sang of the little men as feelingly as if she knew them all by name and loved them. And when she had finished, he said: “Sing it again--just as slow--I’m sleepy.” So she sang it again, and before it was finished he was asleep. And Marigold sat for a little while all by herself and cried very silently. Then, hearing Alice’s homely foot upon the stairs next door, she got up quietly and went out, closing the door very softly, to caution her against letting the world in general know how heavy she was. And Alice saw the tears, though she wasn’t supposed to, and she felt thankful--because she believed that with women tears are the best safety-valve for the position on the boiler lid. CHAPTER IX Amongst the High Priest’s many estimable qualities was this, that he got up moderately early--not officiously so. And having got up, he gave an hour to light reading or recreation of a simple character. Here the clever men as a rule leave recreation till the last thing at night--that is how it is they are often so evil-tempered first thing in the morning. Now St Armand knew this, so half-past seven saw him wandering through the cloisters. He had not slept well--in fact, he hadn’t slept at all--yet he looked none the worse for it. Had you been out in the silent streets in the dark hours of early morning, you might have seen him once more strolling down Greensward Avenue. You might have seen him, as a boy might, scaling the high wall of the near garden, surveying the country beyond. And despite his white hair and dignified appearance of age, with what a neat jump he again reached the pavement. Twenty feet! and as gracefully as one of the gods descending the steep rocks of Olympus. And with what wonderful gift of second sight must he have been possessed, for suddenly you saw him stoop--the wrinkled smile on his lips and at the corners of his eyes deepening. He touched a certain spot of the ground with the toe of his boot.