ething to eat, and protected her from giants and robbers and
wolves.

"Many a time I thought of her, and cried because she was so unhappy.
Well, she traveled from place to place, footsore and weary, but in her
own country no one dared aid her, for fear of displeasing the wicked
fairy, who at this time was all powerful. So she entered a strange land,
where some peasants took her in, clothed and fed her, and gave her a
staff and a flock of geese to tend. And day after day she guarded the
flock, telling her sorrows to the dog, how she missed the dear ones and
the home of her childhood.

"One day the reigning prince of this strange land passed by while
hunting, and he saw the princess tending her geese. He made inquiries,
and when he found that the beautiful goose-girl was a princess, he
offered to marry her. She consented to become his wife, because she was
too delicate to drudge. So she and her dog went to live at the palace.
Once she was married the dog behaved strangely, whining softly, and
refusing to be consoled. The prince was very kind to them both.

"Alas! It seems that when she left her own country the good fairy had
lost all track of her, to find her when it was too late. The dog was a
prince under a wicked spell, and when the spell fell away the princess
knew that she loved him, and not her husband. She pined away and
died. How many times I have thought of her, poor, lonely, fairy-tale
princess!"

The old soldier blinked at the doves, and there was a furrow between his
eyes. Yes; how well he remembered telling her that story. But, as she
repeated it, it was clothed with a strange significance. Somehow, he
found himself voiceless; he knew not how to reply.

"Monsieur," she said suddenly, "tell me, what has my poor father done
that these people should hate him and desire his ruin?"

"He has been kind to them, my child," his gaze still riveted on the
doves; "that is all. He has given them beautiful parks, he has made them
a beautiful city. A king who thinks of his people's welfare is never
understood. And ignorant and ungrateful people always hate those to whom
they are under obligations. It is the way of the world."

"And--and you, Marshal?" timidly.

"And I?"

"Yes. They whisper that--that--O, Marshal, is it you who will forsake
us in our need? I have heard many things of late which were not intended
for my ears. My father and I, we are so alone. I have never known the
comradeship of young people; I ha