“In my country one may have an honored name and still be compelled to earn a competence.”

“Ah, yes!  After all, scribbling is better than owning a shop.”  This is the usual argument of Kings.  “Can you trace your pedigree very far back?” the King proceeded.

“My ancestors came over in the Mayflower,” said I.

“The Mayflower?” said the King, puzzled.

“All the Americans,” explained the Chancellor, “went over in the Mayflower.  The ark and the Mayflower were the largest ships ever put to sea, Your Majesty.”  To hide his smile, the Chancellor passed over to the window and began drawing pictures on the frosted panes.

Continued the King:  “If you loved one of my countrywomen, would you be willing to sacrifice your own country?  I mean, would you be willing to adopt mine, to become a naturalized citizen, to uphold its laws, to obey the will of its sovereign, and to take up arms in its defense?”

My knees began to knock together.  “I should be willing,” I answered, “if I should never be called upon to bear arms against the country in which I was born.”

“I should never ask you to do that,” replied the King.

“No; His Majesty has too wholesome a respect for America,” the Chancellor interpolated.

“Prince,” said the King, “go and finish your window panes.”

The Chancellor meekly obeyed.

“This is your answer?” said the King to me.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Then marry the Princess Elizabeth,” he said, tossing the missive to me.

“Yes, marry her,” said the irrepressible Chancellor; “and some day the
King will put a medal on your breast and make you a baron of the realm. 
Your Majesty, come and help me with this last pane.”

The Princess Elizabeth?  I glanced at the writing on the envelope.  It was Gretchen’s.  “And, Your Majesty,” I read, “it is true that they love each other.  Permit them to be happy.  I ask your forgiveness for all the trouble I have caused you.  I promise that from now on I shall be the most obedient subject in all your kingdom.  Hildegarde.”  I dropped the letter on the table.

“Your Majesty,” I began nervously, “there is some mistake.  I do not love Her Highness the Princess Elizabeth.”

The King and his Chancellor whirled around.  The decorations on the panes remained unfinished.  The King regarded me with true anger, and the Chancellor with dismay.

“I love the Princess Hildegarde,” I went on in a hollow voice.

“Is this a jest?” demanded the King.

“No; on my honor.”  For once I forgot court etiquette, and left off “Your Majesty.”

“Let me see the letter,” said the Chancellor, with a pacific purpose.  “There is some misunderstanding here.”  He read the letter and replaced it on the table—­and went back to his window.

“Well?” cried the King, impatiently.

“I forgot, Your Majesty,” said the Chancellor.