ings, they heard a soft
voice say 'Moti!'

'That is Matiya,' said the little prince. 'I do not like Matiya.
What is it, Matiya?'

'It is not Matiya,' said the voice quickly, 'it is Tarra. Here is
a gift from the heart of Tarra, little parrot, a gift for you, and
a gift for the Sahib's son; also a sweet cake, but the cake is for
Moti.'

'I am sure it was Matiya,' said Moti, running to pick the packet
out of the rose-bush it had fallen into; 'but Matiya was never kind
before.'

The packet held a necklace and an armlet. The necklace was of
little pearls and big amethysts strung upon fine wire, three rows
of pearls, and then an amethyst, and was very lovely. The armlet
was of gold, with small rubies and turquoises set in a pattern.
The boys looked at them more or less indifferently. They had seen
so many jewels.

'Matiya--if you think it was Matiya--makes pretty gifts,' said
Sunni, 'and the Maharajah will keep your necklace for you for ever
in an iron box. But this armlet will get broken just as the other
two armlets that were given to me have got broken. I cannot wear
armlets and play polo, and I would rather play polo.'

'That is because you were clumsy,' Moti answered. Moti was peevish
that afternoon. The Maharajah had refused him a gun, and he
particularly wanted a gun, not to shoot anything, but to frighten
the crows with and perhaps the coolie-folk. To console himself
Moti had eaten twice as many sweetmeats as were good for him, and
was in a bad temper accordingly.

'Now they are certainly of Tarra, these jewels,' exclaimed Sunni,
'I remember that necklace upon her neck, for every time Tarra has
kissed me, that fifth stone which has been broken in the cutting
has scratched my face.'

'In one word,' said Moti imperiously, 'it was the voice of Matiya.
And this perplexes me, for Matiya, hating my mother, hates me also,
I think.'

'Why did she hate your mother?' asked Sunni.

'How stupid you are to-day! You have heard the story two hundred
times! Because she thought that she should have been chosen to be
queen instead of my mother. It is true that she was more
beautiful, but my mother was a pundita. And she was not chosen.
She is only second in the palace. And she has no children, while
my mother was the mother of a king.'

'No,' said Sunni, 'I never heard that before, Moti.'

'But I say you have! Two hundred times! And look, O thoughtless
one, you have gone between me and the sun, so t