But Paul, reading her unspoken thought in her eyes, with that sweet clairvoyance that had always existed between them, soothed and petted and caressed her till the smiles returned to her face and she nestled in his arms, once more happy and content.

She was the queen of his soul, he told her, whoever might wear the crown and bear the title before the world.  Then, very carefully, lest he should wound her, he told her the whole story of the Princess Elodie.

Opal moved across the room and stood drumming idly by the long, open window.  He watched her anxiously.

“Paul, did you go to see her as you promised—­and is she ...pretty?”

“She is a cow!”

“Paul!” Opal laughed at his tone.

“Oh, but she is!  Fancy loving a cow!”

Opal’s heart grew heavy with a great pity for this poor, unfortunate royal lady who was to be Paul’s wife—­the mother of his children—­but never, never his Love!

“But, Paul, you’ll be good to her, won’t you?  I know you will!  You couldn’t be unkind to any living thing.”

And she ran into his arms, and clasped his neck tight!  And the poor Princess Elodie was again forgotten!

“You—­Opal—­are my real wife,” Paul assured her, “the one love of my soul, the mate the gods have formed for me—­my own forever!”

Opal wept for pity of him, and for herself, but she faced the future bravely.  She would always be his guiding star, to beckon him upward!

“And, Opal, my darling,” Paul went on, “I promise you to live henceforth a life of which you shall be proud.  I will be brave and true and noble and great and pure—­to prove my gratitude to the gods for giving me this one day—­for giving me you, dearest—­and your love—­your wonderful love!  I will be worthy, dear—­I will!  I’ll be your knight—­your Launcelot—­and you shall be my Guenevere!  I will always wear your colors in my heart, dear—­the red-brown of your hair, the glorious hazel of your eyes, the flush of your soft cheek, the rose of your sweet lips, the virgin whiteness of your soul!”

Opal looked at him with eyes brimming with pride.  Young as he was, he was indeed every inch a king.

And she had crowned him king of her heart and soul and life before she had known!  Oh, the wonder of it!—­the strange, sweet wonder of it! He, who might have loved and mated where he would, had chosen her to be his love!  She could not realize it.  It was almost beyond belief, she thought, that she—­plain little Opal Ledoux—­could stir such a nature as his to such a depth as she knew she had stirred it.

Ah, the gods had been good to her!  They had sent her the Prince Charming, and he had wakened her with his kiss—­that first kiss—­how well she remembered it—­and how utterly she belonged to him!

Then she remembered that, however much they tried to deceive themselves, there was a to-morrow—­a to-morrow that would surely come—­a to-morrow in which they would not belong to each other at all.  He would belong to the world.  She would belong to a—­