lful they are! They knew about
it. It is all a part of the plot. I do not believe there is danger. All
my life I have heard them talk. That is all they do--talk and plan and
plot, and do things in secret. They made you promise never to desert
Otto, so that their arrangements need not be interfered with. Oh, I know
them, better than you do. They are all cruel. It is the blood."

What Nikky would have said to this was lost by the return of Prince
Ferdinand William Otto. He came in, carrying the empty cup carefully.
"She took it all," he said, "and she feels much better. I hope you
didn't eat all the bread and butter."

Reassured as to this by a glance, he climbed to his chair. "We're all
very happy, aren't we?" he observed. "It's quite a party. When I grow up
I shall ask you both to tea every day."

That evening the Princess Hedwig went unannounced to her grandfather's
apartment, and demanded to be allowed to enter.

A gentleman-in-waiting bowed deeply, but stood before the door. "Your
Highness must pardon my reminding Your Highness," he said firmly, "that
no one may enter His Majesty's presence without permission."

"Then go in," said Hedwig, in a white rage, "and get the permission."

The gentleman-in-waiting went in, very deliberately, because his dignity
was outraged. The moment he had gone, however, Hedwig flung the door
open, and followed, standing, a figure of tragic defiance, inside the
heavy curtains of the King's bedroom.

"There is no use saying you won't see me, grandfather. For here I am."

They eyed each other, the one, it must be told, a trifle uneasily, the
other desperately. Then into the King's eyes came a flash of admiration,
and just a gleam of amusement.

"So I perceive," he said. "Come here, Hedwig."

The gentleman-in-waiting bowed himself out. His hands, in their tidy
white gloves, would have liked to box Hedwig's ears. He was very upset.
If this sort of thing went on, why not a republic at once and be done
with it?

A Sister of Charity was standing by the King's bed. She had cared for
him through many illnesses. In the intervals she retired to her cloister
and read holy books and sewed for the poor. Even now, in her little
chamber off the bedroom, where bottles sat in neat rows, covered with
fresh towels, there lay a small gray flannel petticoat to warm the legs
of one of the poor.

The sister went out, her black habit dragging, but she did not sew. She
was reading a book on the mirac