“Oh, yes,” cried Lionel; “you were going to beg me to accept the little rule, were n’t you?  And you left it for me when you disappeared, and it is a beauty, and it is gold, and it does strange, wonderful things for me, and—­and—­” In his enthusiasm he drew it from his breast and held it up, when, lo! it curved about his hand until it formed a perfect, beautiful circle.  From its shining rim shot up points of radiance, and it was no more a simple little rule, but a golden crown fit for a king to wear.

Lionel gazed at it in mute wonderment, and the beggar put out his hand and touched it lovingly.

“When your journey is done you shall wear it, lad,” he said; and then Lionel closed his eyes for very ecstasy, and then—­

But when extraordinary things are just on the point of getting too extraordinary, they are sure to meet with some sort of an interruption, and after that they are quite ordinary and every-day again.  So when Lionel opened his eyes there he was curled up in the chair by the drawing-room window, and it had grown very dark and must have been late, for one of the maids was tripping softly about the room, lighting the lamps and singing as she did it.

MARIE AND THE MEADOW-BROOK.

A little maid sat sadly weeping while the sunbeams played merrily at hide-and-seek with the shadows that the great oak branches cast on the ground; while the warm summer wind sang softly to itself as it passed, and the blue sky had not even a white cloud with which to hide the sad sight from its eyes.

“Why do you weep?” asked the oak-tree; but Marie did not hear it, and her tears tell faster than ever.

“Why are you so sad?” questioned the sunbeams; and they came to her gently and tried to peep into her eyes.

But she only got up and sat farther away in the shadow, and they could do nothing to comfort her.  So they danced awhile on the door-step; and then the sun called them away, for it was growing late.

And still the little maid sat weeping; and if she had not fallen asleep from very weariness, who knows what the sad consequences might not have been?

“How warm it is!” murmured the dandelions in the meadow.  “Our heads are quite heavy, and our feet are hot.  If it was not our duty to stand up, we would like nothing better than to sink down in the shade and go to sleep; but we must attend to our task and keep awake.”

“What can you have, you wee things, to keep you busy?” asked the tall milkweed that grew near the fence-rails; and the mullein-stalk beside it echoed,—­

“What, indeed?”

“Now, one can understand one so tall as I having to stand upright and do my duty; but you,—­why, you are no taller than one of my green pods that I am filling with floss—­”

“And not half so tall as one of my leaves that I must line with velvet,” interrupted the mullein-stalk again.