"I didn’t want to go in the garden," Herrick said as if that explained everything. "So we went upstairs and there was a lovely bed and we played princess, but they’re not good. They didn’t do it really well. You and daddie are much better." Mrs. Wycherly looked across at her husband and laughed. "One needs educating up to that game," she said. "I daresay Edmund and Montagu will play it very well when they’ve got little girls of their own." "They didn’t seem to ’preciate me much," the child said sadly, "but," tolerantly, "they did their best. I like the big one, he’s more respectful." When their visitors had gone, Edmund sought Mr. Wycherly and climbed upon his knee. "Funny little kid, wasn’t she?" he said. "She is a remarkably beautiful child." "Yes, she is nice to look at; all that hair’s so jolly. We were very good to her, Guardie, really; we did everything she asked us once—but we really couldn’t do it all over again." "Do what all over again?" "Oh, be princes and admire her, and rubbish. She wouldn’t let us kill the wicked baron or anything really jolly like that." "You’ve had very little to do with girls, ever," Mr. Wycherly said thoughtfully. "It is rather a pity. I sometimes wish we knew some nice little girls for you to play with. They have, I expect, a refining influence." "I don’t want any refining influences if it’s princesses and that sort of thing. I couldn’t go on doing it to please anybody." "She’s only a baby, Edmund. You liked all sorts of queer games when you were very little. I’m sure I’d be quite willing to play princes or anything else to please the young lady." "And go down on your knees?" "Certainly," said Mr. Wycherly, who, however, looked rather startled, "if it gave her pleasure." "I suppose we gave her pleasure," Edmund grumbled, "but she didn’t seem over-pleased, somehow. I can’t think _what_ she wanted, really." "Perhaps she didn’t know herself." "Oh, yes, she did, for she was so sure we were doing it wrong." "Perhaps," suggested Mr. Wycherly, with unconscious irony, "it is a better game for two." "Well, you won’t catch Montagu and me playing that game anyhow." "Who knows—some day," said Mr. Wycherly. *CHAPTER IV* *THE BEGGAR MAID* "Who loves me? dearest father, mother sweet, I speak the names out sometimes by myself, And make the silence shiver. They sound strange, As Hindostani to an Ind-born man Accustomed many years to English speech; Or lovely poet-words grown obsolete, Which will not leave off singing." E. B. BROWNING. That evening, after the princess and her parents had gone, Mrs. Dew asked Mr. Wycherly if she might "pop out" for an hour or so before supper just to run home and see that all was well. Mrs. Dew always "popped," and according to herself, invariably ran, though such modes of progression seemed hardly in keeping with her stout, comfortable figure.