and turned, and there was no refreshment in his
sleep.

Joyeuse woke in the morning fresh and happy and full of eagerness. He
woke very early--earlier even than usual, when he had been wont to join
the flower-maiden in her garden. He began to think of her, and how she
had looked at different times when he had thus seen her. He remembered
her the day before among the lavender; and before that among the roses,
with their dangerous thorns; once among the lilies, herself as pure and
white. "Surely, surely," he said to himself, "one of these three is her
favorite flower." And he lay staring up at the ceiling, trying to
remember which of all her posies she had seemed most to love. "Which one
of them has her heart? How curiously she said it: '_My heart is with my
favorite flower._' Surely, she meant something more by the words than
the first thought which they bring. What did she mean?"

At this moment Joyeuse glanced toward the window, where the morning
sunlight streamed in gloriously. The vines about the lattice trembled in
a passing breeze. One of them, reaching out a slender tendril-finger,
seemed to beckon him. He half rose in bed, smiling at the thought. Lo! a
little pink and white flower nodded at him over the window sill. It was
a morning-glory. How pretty, how fresh, how fairy-like it was, with the
dew in its cup, and with its little green leaves so graceful,--like
pointed hearts!

Suddenly Joyeuse sat straight up in bed. Those heart-shaped leaves! The
heart of the Princess Fleurette! Her favorite flower--was it not the
morning-glory? Now he remembered how he had first seen her peering in at
the little arbor, herself a pink and white flower on a green stem, with
the blossom in her hair. He remembered how she had kissed the little
cups and called them her darlings. How could he ever have forgotten! How
dull he had been!

He sprang from the bed and ran eagerly to the window. He stretched out
his hand to the blossom, not to pick it,--it was too early for
that,--but to caress it for his maiden's sake. Leaning out to do so, he
heard a little laugh beneath his window, and, looking down, he saw the
green flower-maiden with whom he had played in the mornings, standing at
the foot of the morning-glory vine, on which her hand rested lovingly.
She was looking up, but when she met his eyes she turned and ran away,
laughing softly as she disappeared from sight.

The time passed, all too slowly for Joyeuse. But at last came t