Although the owner of the inn was evidently pleased at having so much to place before his guests, he seemed to think that he could do still better. "One of my pigs," he said, "is to be killed to-morrow. If you will stay till then I can offer you something really fine." Although that might not have been the reason, Mr. Popescu decided to stay. "Come," the landlord's wife said to Jonitza next morning as he sat on the stoop in front of the inn. In answer to her mysterious beckoning, Jonitza followed her to the rear. Here he found a group of men and boys gathered around a big fire from which a very pleasant odor rose. "What is it?" Jonitza inquired. The landlady laughed and then whispered, "The pig has been killed and we are burning off its hair." After the meat had been exposed to the heat for a sufficient length of time, thin slices were cut off and handed to each person present. This resulted in loud exclamations from some of the children whose fingers were burnt and even louder smacking of lips as the delicious morsels were tasted. They left late that afternoon for the next village, overtaking on the way a party of reapers with scythes over their shoulders. A young woman crowned with wheaten ears led several others, all of whom chanted some melancholy air about the end of the harvest. Everywhere they went people sang, the number of folk songs about soldier life being particularly noticeable. Many of these songs were exceedingly touching; some, however, were wild in character. All were full of a spirit of rare bravery and resignation to whatever fate had in store. At last among the grand forests near the Prahova River, the pretty rustic houses of rural Roumania changed to Swiss looking cottages, and then to fine brown and red-roofed villas, hotels and baths. Sinaia had been reached. A little apart from the villas stood the Royal Summer Palace, with its tall roofs and glittering pinnacles. During the trip they had changed vehicles and drivers many times, and now a very old man acted as their coachman. His eyes sparkled as he pointed out the Château. "I lived near here," he said, "when this Château was built for King Carol and Queen Elizabeth, whom they tell me is now generally called 'Carmen Sylva.' My daughter was better acquainted with her than I. Might I tell you the story, sir? It was not long after the Château was finished that the King and Queen drove up to spend a few days here. They had splendid horses and came fast. My little girl was playing by the roadside and somehow frightened the horses for they leaped to one side. They were brought under control at once, but the child had been more frightened than they and cried loudly.