Then she turned, and hurried away, through the trees, back to the house,-- A great drowsiness took possession of the King. He did not resist it. He gave himself up to it gladly-- His instinct had served him well. Judith understood him, better than he understood himself. Judith was right. She was always right. The larger part of his trouble, it seemed to him, now, had been, as she said, his bewilderment, his uncertainty, as to where he and she stood. Now that Judith had defined their position--as plainly as it could be defined with safety--a great burden seemed to have been lifted from his mind. Judith understood him. Nothing else mattered. Other things--could not touch him here in Paradise. Other things--could wait. His shadow-- Half asleep, as he was already, he sat up abruptly. The bright, afternoon sun was shining full on to the little clearing, throwing no shadow-- His shadow was not there-- Leaning back, contentedly, in his chair, he closed his eyes again. Almost at once, he slept. CHAPTER XIV A light, butterfly touch on his cheek awoke the King. He had slept so deeply, and so long, it was a minute or two, before he fully regained consciousness. Then he found himself gazing at Bill's gleeful, cherubic face. "Lazy, lazy, slug-a-bed, Uncle Alfred," Bill chanted. "'Bed by daytime' was over--ever so long ago. We've been making the hay, the whole afternoon. And you've been asleep all the time, you poor, tired dear. But mother said we could wake you now." A sudden tenderness, for the shining innocence of the little fellow's smiling face, gripped the King. Catching him up in his arms, he shook him, playfully, in mid air. Then he set him down on his feet again, and turning--saw Button, on the other side of his chair. "Wonderful harvest weather, this we're having," Button remarked. "But, if it's good for the hay, it's bad for the roots. We want rain for the roots, there's no denying." It was an extremely elderly Button who spoke. The King recognized one of the youngster's habitual quotations. It sounded like the weather lore of old Jevons, the gardener. "It's Coronation weather, you see, Button," he said absently. Button became all boy, seven-year-old boy, at once. "Were you in the procession, Uncle Alfred?" he cried. "Mother told us about it. Did you see the King? Did you wear your sword? Did the people cheer?" "Tell us about the flags, and the 'luminations, and the fireworks," Bill demanded, joining in, in the little hurricane of questions. "Mother says the King rode in his coach. Why didn't he ride on one of his horses? Did he wear his crown in the coach? Is his crown heavy?"