ived at the lonely age of
thirty without having met a woman whom he could love enough to make his
wife. He was a rather fanciful young prince, accustomed to follow his
whims; and one day, being more than usually bored with existence, he
took it into his head to ramble incognito through his kingdom in search
of his ideal wife,--'The Golden Girl,' as he called her. He had hardly
set out when in a country lane he came across a peasant girl hanging
out clothes to dry, and he fell to talk with her while she went on with
her charming occupation. Presently he observed, pegged on the line,
strangely incongruous among the other homespun garments, a wonderful
petticoat, so exquisite in material and design that it aroused his
curiosity. At the same moment he noticed a pair of stockings, round
the tops of which one of the daintiest artists in the land had wrought
an exquisite little frieze. The prince was learned in every form of
art, and had not failed to study this among other forms of decoration.
No sooner did he see this petticoat than the whim seized him that he
would find and marry the wearer, whoever she might be--"

"Rather rash of him," interrupted Sylvia, "for it is usually old ladies
who have the prettiest petticoats. They can best afford them--"

"He questioned the girl as to their owner," I continued, "and after
vainly pretending that they were her own, she confessed that they had
belonged to a young and beautiful lady who had once lodged there and
left them behind. Then the prince gave her a purse of gold in exchange
for the finery, and on the waistband of the petticoat he read a
beautiful name, and he said, 'This and no other shall be my wife, this
unknown beautiful woman, and on our marriage night she shall wear this
petticoat.' And then the prince went forth seeking--"

"There's not much point in it," interrupted Sylvia.

"No," I said, "I'm afraid I've stupidly missed the point."

"Why, what was it?"

"The name upon the petticoat!"

"Why, what name was it?" she asked, somewhat mystified.

"The inscription upon the petticoat was, to be quite accurate, 'Sylvia
Joy, No. 6.'"

"Whatever are you talking about?" she said with quite a stormy blush.
"I'm afraid you've had more than your share of the champagne."

As I finished, I slipped out of my pocket a dainty little parcel softly
folded in white tissue paper. Very softly I placed it on the table.
It contained one of the precious stockings; and half o