The fifty servants, entirely freed from labor at the time, and dressed in their festive garments, wandered about with their children, in couples, trios or groups—over the green fields, beside the singing streams, or along the silvery sanded beach; or they sat in groups under the shady groves; or reposed, stretched at length, beneath some gigantic tree; or gathered in some large arbor around some one of their number, who had been taught to read, and who read to them from the Book of books; or else they united their voices in a psalm of thanksgiving that arose joyously from that green and blooming Island of the sea, filling all the sunny air with music. And the lovely day was followed by a moonlight night, and their Sabbath recreations were closed by the assembling of the whole band of servants, and the singing of an evening hymn. Then, after partaking of the simple Sunday supper of coffee, cakes and fruit, served under the trees, they separated for the night. And Monsieur Henri, no longer pope, but king, sat upon his front piazza, with his niece upon his knee, his sister-in-law beside him, and his two favorite servants Madeleine and Louis near at hand, and watched the departing figures of his people as they defiled off in twos and threes and larger groups, toward their respective neat, white cabins. “My subjects are happy, I think, my dear sister! At least it is my study to make them so! And they love me! Yes, they love me! That is what keeps my old age green,” said the old man. And assuredly no people in the world were happier as a community than these dependants of the good old man—these subjects of a self-styled king. “They seem contented and prosperous,” said Madame. “They have nothing left to wish for, and on their side leave me nothing to desire. Neither have I any cares of government—Louis manages all my affairs,” said the old man with a look of infinite content. The next day, Monday, “His Majesty” requested a private interview with his “august sister,” in which he begged that she would give him a full and particular account of her illustrious son, “the Prince,” his nephew’s misfortunes. And Madame gave a distorted version of the truth—relating that Monsieur Victoire had been condemned to the colonies for conspiring in favor of the Bourbons, and that his young wife, an English Lady of high rank, had abandoned him in his misfortunes. The mind of the old man in attending to this story seemed divided between exalted admiration for the heroism, and profound sorrow for the misfortunes of his nephew. They then talked of the affairs of the Island. And Madame learned from all she heard and saw, that Monsieur Henri De L’Ile, notwithstanding his monomania, and perhaps even _because_ of it, was one of the best of masters and wisest of rulers—truly deserving to be called by the threefold titles that he claimed of King, Priest, and Father of his people.