And the king said to himself, “All the queens of my acquaintance have children, some three, some seven, and some as many as twelve; and my queen has not one.  I feel ill-used.”  So he made up his mind to be cross with his wife about it.  But she bore it all like a good patient queen as she was.  Then the king grew very cross indeed.  But the queen pretended to take it all as a joke, and a very good one too.

“Why don’t you have any daughters, at least?” said he.  “I don’t say sons; that might be too much to expect.”

“I am sure, dear king, I am very sorry,” said the queen.

“So you ought to be,” retorted the king; “you are not going to make a virtue of that, surely.”

But he was not an ill-tempered king, and in any matter of less moment would have let the queen have her own way with all his heart.  This, however, was an affair of State.

The queen smiled.

“You must have patience with a lady, you know, dear king,” said she.

She was, indeed, a very nice queen, and heartily sorry that she could not oblige the king immediately.

The king tried to have patience, but he succeeded very badly.  It was more than he deserved, therefore, when, at last, the queen gave him a daughter—­as lovely a little princess as ever cried.

II

Won’t I, Just?

The day drew near when the infant must be christened.  The king wrote all the invitations with his own hand.  Of course somebody was forgotten.

Now it does not generally matter if somebody is forgotten, only you must mind who.  Unfortunately, the king forgot without intending to forget; and so the chance fell upon the Princess Makemnoit, which was awkward.  For the princess was the king’s own sister; and he ought not to have forgotten her.  But she had made herself so disagreeable to the old king, their father, that he had forgotten her in making his will; and so it was no wonder that her brother forgot her in writing his invitations.  But poor relations don’t do anything to keep you in mind of them.  Why don’t they?  The king could not see into the garret she lived in, could he?

She was a sour, spiteful creature.  The wrinkles of contempt crossed the wrinkles of peevishness, and made her face as full of wrinkles as a pat of butter.  If ever a king could be justified in forgetting anybody, this king was justified in forgetting his sister, even at a christening.  She looked very odd, too.  Her forehead was as large as all the rest of her face, and projected over it like a precipice.  When she was angry, her little eyes flashed blue.  When she hated anybody, they shone yellow and green.  What they looked like when she loved anybody, I do not know; for I never heard of her loving anybody but herself, and I do not think she could have managed that if she had not somehow got used to herself.  But what made it highly imprudent in the king to forget