“Where are your brothers and sisters?” he asked, suddenly remembering them. “I was telling you lies; I haven’t any.” She was looking down on the ground--the most exquisite picture of shame and contrition he had ever seen. “And your father?” “I haven’t one; I made that up too,” and suddenly a pair of eyes, very serious, flashed up to his--one minute, then down again. “What possessed you to be so--so wicked?” He tried to speak severely, and succeeded except for one false note--and that the last word--the sternest one that should have been. “I wanted to come to the Palace to see what it was like, and they said you couldn’t come unless you were poor and had a lot of children, so I made the tale up to get there--and--and--and I got.” “What was there at the Palace to interest any one so young as you?” “Oh! everything. It was beautiful. I dreamt about it afterwards. And I saw you, and the three gentlemen writing, and the one smoking! And the lovely room with all the big books.” What big beautiful eyes she had, and how young and easily impressionable she seemed! What a child-like, innocent face! “And could you dream about such trivial things as those?” said he, a tone almost envious in his voice. “Why, yes,” she answered shyly, “because I saw _you_, and you’re not trivial. You are one of the greatest men in all the land, and every one respects you.” He laughed, almost forgetting to be condescending. Then, suddenly remembering his errand, he said: “But if you will not let me have your other name, I cannot fill you up the form.” “I don’t want to go to the Poor Sisters’ Home, I want to stay here with my aunt, near the Temple. I love the Temple, I wasn’t born to live in a convent--I feel I wasn’t.” There was nothing flippant in her tone, for she was very earnest; and he persisted no further, but got up to go. “Good-night! and if you ever want help or need advice of any sort, you can always apply at the Palace for it. My Chaplain or one of my secretaries will see that you are attended to.” And then he held out his hand--greatest of condescensions, yet from the weakness of curiosity, not quite from charity--and Marigold’s hand was as soft and pretty as she herself was charming, and all the way back to the Palace the pressure of the tiny fingers lingered in his palm. Then, when the door was closed, Marigold and Alice sat down to supper together, and for a little while neither of them spoke. At last Alice said, wiping the perspiration from her brow: “Who would have thought it! The great High Priest himself!” “I wasn’t a bit surprised,” said Marigold. “Do you like him, Alice, or don’t you?” “He was very nice to you, Princess--very fatherly and nice, I thought.” And Marigold burst out laughing. “Why don’t you say _grand_fatherly? One’s just as bad as the other, you know; and the last time I spoke to him he was even nastier to me than he was to you at the door. I think he must be falling in love with me, and I like him more than ever.”