Hazen looked out the window and across the palace garden, lying all golden-green in the slow opening light, with fountains and flowers and parks and goldfish everywhere. “What makes it get day?” he asked. For since he had been a furnace boy, Hazen had been taught nothing at all. “Why, the sun comes,” answered the princess. “Is it the same sun every day?” Hazen asked. “I don’t think so,” said the princess. “No--sometimes it is a red sun. Sometimes it is a hot sun. Sometimes it is big, big, when it goes down. Oh, no. I am quite sure a different sun comes up every day.” “Where do they get ’em all?” Hazen asked wonderingly. “Well,” the princess said thoughtfully, “suns must be like cwort (she never could say “court”) processions. I think they always have them ready somewheres. What else do you want to know about?” “About the Spring,” said Hazen. “Where does that come from? Where do they get it?” “They never teached me that,” said the princess, “but _I_ think Summer is the mother, and Winter the father, and Autumn is the noisy little boy, and Spring is the little girl, with violets on.” “Of course,” cried Hazen, joyfully. “I never thought of that. Why can’t they talk?” he asked. “They ’most can,” said the princess. “Some day maybe I can teach you what they say. What else do you want to know?” “About people,” said Hazen. “Why are some folks good and some folks bad? Why is the king kind and the cook cross?” “Oh, they never teached me that!” the princess cried, impatiently. “What a lot of things you ask!” “One more question, your Highness,” said Hazen, instantly. “Why are you so beautiful?” The princess smiled. “Now I’ll teach you my picture-book through,” she said. She opened the picture-book and showed him pictures of castles and beasts and lawns and towers and ladies and mountains and bright birds and pillars and cataracts and wild white horses and, last, a picture of a prince setting forth on a quest. “Prince Living sets out to make his fortune,” it said under the picture, and Hazen stared at it. “Why shouldn’t I set out to make _my_ fortune?” he cried. The princess laughed. “You are a furnace boy,” she explained. “_They_ don’t make fortunes. Who would mind the furnace if they did?” Hazen sprang to his feet. “That can’t be the way the world is!” he cried. “Not when it’s so pretty and all stuck full of goldfish and fountains and flowers and parks. If I went, I _would_ make my fortune!” The princess crossed her little slippered feet and looked at him. And when he met her eyes, he was ashamed of his anger, though not of his earnestness, and he bowed again; and all the kings of all the courts of his ancestors were in the bow. “After all,” said the princess, “we don’t have the furnace in Summer. And you bow so nicely that I b’lieve I will help you to make your fortune. _Anyhow_, I can help you to set out.”