Now Hazen had never been in the town at night, and he had never been in any town at any time without some of the king’s servants for whom he had had to fetch and carry. To him the streets were strange and wonderful, blazing with lights, filled with gayly dressed folk, and sounding now and again to strains of music. But the Merry Lad seemed wholly at home, and he went here and there like a painted moth, belonging to the night and a part of it. They feasted and jested and joyed, and most of all they spent the money that they had earned, and they spent it on themselves. I cannot tell you the things that they bought. They bought a wonderful, tropical, talking bird; they bought a little pony on which they both could ride, with the bird on the pony’s neck; they bought a tiny trick monkey and a suit of Indian clothes with fringed leggings and head-feathers; and a music-box that played like a whole band. And when the evening with its lights and pantomimes was over, they pitched their tent on the edge of the town, picketed the pony outside, brought the other things safely within, and lay down to sleep. Now, since they had no pillows, Hazen took the picture-book which the princess had given him and made his pillow of that. And as soon as everything was quiet, and the Merry Lad and the talking bird were asleep and the pony was dozing at its picket, the princess’s picture-book began to talk to Hazen. I do not mean that it said words--it is a great mistake to think that everything that is said must be said in words--but it talked to him none the less, and better than with words. It showed him the princess in her blue gown sitting in the window-seat with her little blue slippers crossed. It showed him her face as she taught him about the sun and the world, and taught him her picture-book through. It reminded him that his page-boy’s dress was worn because, in his heart, he was her page. It brought back the picture of her standing at the window, with her hair partly brushed, to wave him a good-bye--“_Now_, good-bye,” he could hear her little voice. He remembered now that he had started out to find his fortune and to become wise, _really_ good, loved, and beautiful. And lo, all this that he had done all day with the Merry Lad--was it helping him to any of these? As soon as he knew this, he rose softly and, emptying his pockets of his share of the money earned that day, he laid it near the Merry Lad’s pillow, took the picture-book, and slipped away. The Merry Lad did not wake, but the talking bird stirred on his perch and called after him: “Stay where you are! Stay where you are!” And the words seemed to echo in Hazen’s head and were repeated there as if another voice had said them, and while he hesitated at the door of the tent, he knew what that other voice was: It was within his head indeed, and it was the voice of that breezy little Self, all merry and fluffy and light as lace--the Fun Self itself!