“But at this moment,” continued Wogan, “there very properly appears the fairy godmother in the person of a romantical maiden aunt.”

“Oh!” said Clementina, “I have a romantical maiden aunt.”

“Yes,” said Wogan, and turning with a bow to the Princess-mother; “your Highness.”

“I?” she exclaimed, starting up in her chair.

“Your Highness has written an encouraging letter to Captain O’Toole,” resumed Wogan.  The Princess-mother gasped, “A letter to Captain O’Toole,” and she flung up her hands and fell back in her chair.

“On the receipt of the letter Captain O’Toole gathers his friends, borrows a horse here, a carriage there, and a hundred guineas from Heaven knows whom, comes to the rescue like a knight-errant, and retells the old story of how love laughs at locksmiths.”

As Wogan ended, the mother rose from her chair.  It may have been that she revolted at the part she was to play; it may have been because a fiercer gust shook the curtain and bellied it inwards.  At all events she flung the curtain aside; the snow drifted through the open window onto the floor; outside the open window it was falling like a cascade, and the air was icy.

“Mr. Wogan,” she said, stubbornly working herself into a heat to make more sure of her resolution, “my daughter cannot go to-night.  To-morrow, if the sky clears, yes, but to-night, no.  You do not know, sir, being a man.  But my daughter has fasted through this Lent, and that leaves a woman weak.  I do forbid her going, as her father would.  The very dogs running the streets for food keep kennel on such a night.  She must not go.”

Wogan did not give way, though he felt a qualm of despair, knowing all the stubbornness of which the weak are capable, knowing how impervious to facts or arguments.

“Your Highness,” he said quickly, “we are not birds of passage to rule our flight by seasons.  We must take the moment when it comes, and it comes now.  To-night your daughter can escape; for here’s a night made for an escape.”

“And for my part,” cried Clementina, “I would the snow fell faster.”  She crossed to the open window and held out her hands to catch the flakes.  “Would they did not melt!  I believe Heaven sends the snow to shelter me.  It’s the white canopy spread above my head, that I may go in state to meet my King.”  She stood eager and exultant, her eyes shining, her cheek on fire, her voice thrilling with pride.  She seemed not to feel the cold.  She welcomed the hardships of wind and falling snow as her opportunity.  She desired not only for escape, but also to endure.

Wogan looked her over from head to foot, filled with pride and admiration.  He had made no mistake; he had plucked this rose of the world to give to his King.  His eyes said it; and the girl, reading them, drew a breath and rippled out a laugh of gladness that his trusted servant was so well content with her.  But the Princess-mother stood unmoved.