against the trunk of a neighbouring tree. When night came and softly
covered the earth, Honey-Bee and George were still weeping, each in
front of a tree. The Duchess of Clarides was obliged to come and take
her daughter by one hand and George by the other, and lead them back
to the castle. Their eyes were red and their noses were red and their
cheeks shone. They sighed and sobbed enough to break one's heart. But
they ate a good supper, after which they were both put to bed. But as
soon as the candle was blown out they re-appeared like two little ghosts
in two little night-gowns, and they hugged each other and laughed at the
top of their voices.

And thus began the love of Honey-Bee of Clarides and George of
Blanchelande.

IV

Which treats of Education in general, and George of Blanche
lande's in particular

So George grew up in the Castle side by side with Honey-Bee, whom he
affectionately called his sister though he knew she was not.

He had masters in fencing, riding, swimming, gymnastics, dancing,
hunting, falconry, tennis, and, indeed, in all the arts. He even had a
writing-master. This was an old cleric, humble of manner but very proud
within, who taught him all manner of penmanship, and the more beautiful
this was the less decipherable it became. Very little pleasure or profit
did George get out of the old cleric's lessons, as little as out of
those of an old monk who taught him grammar in barbarous terms. George
could not understand the sense of learning a language which one knows as
a matter of course and which is called one's mother tongue.

He only enjoyed himself with Francoeur the squire, who, having knocked
about the world, understood the ways of men and beasts, could describe
all sorts of countries and compose songs which he could not write.
Francoeur was the only one of his masters who taught George anything,
for he was the only one who really loved him, and the only good lessons
are those which are given with love. The two old goggle-eyes, the
writing-master and the grammar-master, who hated each other with all
their hearts, were, however, united in a common hatred of the old
squire, whom they accused of being a drunkard.

It is true that Francoeur frequented the tavern "The Pewter Pot"
somewhat too zealously. It was here that he forgot his sorrows and
composed his songs. But of course it was very wrong of him.

Homer made better verses than Francoeur, and Homer only drank the w