as much as you like," said his
mistress. "I will have a little bell hung at the door, which I can ring
when I want you. Half-way down the stair is the drawing-room."

So Diamond was installed as page, and his new room got ready for him.

It was very soon after this that I came to know Diamond. I was then a
tutor in a family whose estate adjoined the little property belonging
to The Mound. I had made the acquaintance of Mr. Raymond in London some
time before, and was walking up the drive towards the house to call upon
him one fine warm evening, when I saw Diamond for the first time. He was
sitting at the foot of a great beech-tree, a few yards from the road,
with a book on his knees. He did not see me. I walked up behind
the tree, and peeping over his shoulder, saw that he was reading a
fairy-book.

"What are you reading?" I said, and spoke suddenly, with the hope of
seeing a startled little face look round at me. Diamond turned his
head as quietly as if he were only obeying his mother's voice, and the
calmness of his face rebuked my unkind desire and made me ashamed of it.

"I am reading the story of the Little Lady and the Goblin Prince," said
Diamond.

"I am sorry I don't know the story," I returned. "Who is it by?"

"Mr. Raymond made it."

"Is he your uncle?" I asked at a guess.

"No. He's my master."

"What do you do for him?" I asked respectfully.

"Anything he wishes me to do," he answered. "I am busy for him now. He
gave me this story to read. He wants my opinion upon it."

"Don't you find it rather hard to make up your mind?"

"Oh dear no! Any story always tells me itself what I'm to think about
it. Mr. Raymond doesn't want me to say whether it is a clever story or
not, but whether I like it, and why I like it. I never can tell what
they call clever from what they call silly, but I always know whether I
like a story or not."

"And can you always tell why you like it or not?"

"No. Very often I can't at all. Sometimes I can. I always know, but I
can't always tell why. Mr. Raymond writes the stories, and then tries
them on me. Mother does the same when she makes jam. She's made such a
lot of jam since we came here! And she always makes me taste it to see
if it'll do. Mother knows by the face I make whether it will or not."

At this moment I caught sight of two more children approaching. One was
a handsome girl, the other a pale-faced, awkward-looking boy, who limped
much on one leg. I withdrew a