“I’ll give you half,” she announces. After all, it is hardly probable that the prince would have helped her shell the peas. And William Searles will, if he _is_ only the chore-boy. Vain hope! “I got to drive the chickens ’round back,” he demurs. “I can’t spend my time shellin’ peas. Your gran’ma says if you don’t get ’em done pretty soon you can’t go over to Miss Salome’s this afternoon. She says you’re a dreadful slow child!” This is the last straw. The Child rises with what would indeed be a freezing dignity were it not that with her rises the birthday-chair. “William,” she begins. But more suddenly than is consistent with her tone she sinks back. William sits upon the grass shaking with laughter. “You looked so awful funny, so awful funny!” he gasps. The Child hangs for a moment between tears and laughter. Then she accepts the situation and laughs as merrily as the chore-boy “I was pretending I was a princess,” she explains. “I——” “Ho!” rejoins William, “you ain’t like a princess! You don’t look like the ones you tell about, anyway! Why”—as she glares at him over the apron, “your hair’s red, red! An’ your eyes are kind o’ green, they are! An’ you’re just jam-packed full o’ freckles! I guess I know well enough how they look, and you ain’t like ’em!” The tears stand in her eyes, but she will not let them fall. “I don’t care, William Searles,” she says bravely, “I may _look_ freckled, but I don’t _feel so_! And it’s better to know how they look than—” But no! She is an honest Child, with all her imaginings. She knows that it is better to look like them than to know about them: better for the maiden and the prince, at least. William waits for the sentence. She begins again. “William Searles,” she says solemnly, “wouldn’t you rather I could _tell_ you about those princesses than _look_ like them?” William’s eyes sparkle greedily. “You bet!” he replies with fervor. The Child sighs with relief. “All right,” she says, “then don’t complain.” She is alone again, and only William’s faint and fainter invitations to the chickens break the silence. The peas fly into the pan. Suppose she should be kept from Miss Salome’s! But no, that shall not be. She looks ahead to the happy afternoon, singing as she works. And now, and now the time has come. The dishes are wiped, the cat fed, and the fennel picked for the long sermon to-morrow. She, her very self, in her new dotted lawn walks carefully up the hill to the big house, terraced and gravel-pathed. She knocks timidly at the brass ring and the tall colored butler lets her in. He is the only indoor man-servant she has ever seen, and she reverences him greatly. He smiles condescendingly at her, as he smiles not upon all the country people. “If Miss will walk up,” he says. She goes up the soft-carpeted stairs into the upstairs drawing-room. She draw’s a long breath of happiness and wonder ever new, and makes her little curtsy to Miss Salome.