Alfonso XIII., born a king after his father's death, has always been rather a delicate boy; his mother has determined that his health and his education shall be the first and chief care of her life, and nothing turns her from this purpose. If she has never been exactly popular, she has at least the unbounded respect and admiration of the people. She does not love the "bulls," and, therefore, she is not _Española_ enough to awaken enthusiasm; she keeps the boy King too much out of sight, so that his people scarcely know him, even in Madrid; but this is the very utmost that anyone has to say against her, while all shades of politicians, even to declared Republicans, speak of her with respect and with real admiration of her qualities of heart and mind. All Court gaieties are, however, at an end. Once a year or so a ball at the palace, a formal dinner, or reception, when it cannot be avoided--that is all, and for the rest the Queen is rarely seen except at religious ceremonies or state functions, and the King, never. He is supposed to take his amusements and exercise in the Casa de Campo, and rarely crosses Madrid. Numerous stories used to be told of his precocity as a child, and of his smart sayings; sometimes of his generosity and sympathy with the poor and suffering. Now one is told he is somewhat of a pickle, but fables about royalty may always be received with more than a grain of salt. One of the stories told of him, which ought to be true, since it has the ring of childhood about it, is well known. When a small boy, his Austrian governess, of whom he was very fond, reproved him for using his knife in place of a fork. "Gentlemen never do so," she said. "But I am a King," he replied. "Kings, still less, eat with their knives," said the governess. "_This_ King does," was the composed reply of the child.