l. At last the poor
princess grew tired of offering her treasure to people who didn't want
it, and so she locked it up out of sight; and then everybody said that
she hadn't a heart at all, and what a disgrace it was for a young woman
to be without one."

"That wasn't fair!"

"Not at all fair; but people aren't always fair on this side of the
hills, darling."

"But they are on the other?"

"Always; and they are never hard or cold or unsympathetic. So the
princess decided to leave the smoke and the furnaces, and to go to the
country on the other side of the hills. She travelled down into the
valley and right through it, and then across the hills beyond, and never
rested till she reached the country on the other side."

"And what did she find when she got there?"

Elisabeth's eyes grew dreamy. "She found a fairy prince standing on the
very borders of that country, and he said to her, 'You've come at last;
I've been such a long time waiting for you.' And the princess asked him,
'Do you happen to want such a thing as a heart of real gold?' 'I should
just think I do,' said the prince; 'I've wanted it always, and I've
never wanted anything else; but I was beginning to be afraid I was never
going to get it.' 'And I was beginning to be afraid that I was never
going to find anybody to give it to,' replied the princess. So she gave
him her heart, and he took it; and then they looked into each other's
eyes and smiled."

"Is that the end of the story?"

"No, dear; only the beginning."

"Then what happened in the end?"

"Nobody knows."

But Willie's youthful curiosity was far from being satisfied. "What was
the fairy prince like to look at?" he inquired.

"I don't know, darling; I've often wondered."

And Willie had to be content with this uncertain state of affairs. So
had Elisabeth.

For some time now she had been making small bonfires of the Thames; but
the following spring Elisabeth set the river on fire in good earnest by
her great Academy picture, The Pillar of Cloud. It was the picture of
the year; and it supplied its creator with a copious draught of that
nectar of the gods which men call fame.

It was a fine picture, strongly painted, and was a representation of the
Black Country, with its mingled gloom and glare, and its pillar of smoke
always hanging over it. In the foreground were figures of men and women
and children, looking upward to the pillar of cloud; and, by the magic
spell of the artist, Elisa