tart, he recognized as a
masker.

"Excuse me, Mr. Broby," said Paul, "but Miss Clara did me the honor----"

"Oh yes, papa," Miss Clara interrupted him, stepping forth in all her
glory of tulle and flowers; "it is Paul Jespersen, who was going to be
my Beast."

"And it is you who have frightened my servants half out of their wits,
Jespersen?" said Mr. Broby, laughing.

"He tumbled down through the chimney, sir," declared the cook, who had
half-recovered from her fright.

"Well," said Mr. Broby, with another laugh, "I admit that was a trifle
unconventional. Next time you call, Jespersen, you must come through the
door."

He thought Jespersen had chosen to play a practical joke on the
servants, and, though he did not exactly like it, he was in no mood for
scolding. After having been carefully brushed and rolled in the snow,
Paul offered his escort to Miss Clara; and she had not the heart to tell
him that she was not at all Beauty, but Spring. And Paul was not enough
of an expert to know the difference.

LADY CLARE THE STORY OF A HORSE

The king was dead, and among the many things he left behind him which
his successor had no use for were a lot of fancy horses. There were
long-barrelled English hunters, all legs and neck; there were Kentucky
racers, graceful, swift, and strong; and two Arabian steeds, which had
been presented to his late majesty by the Sultan of Turkey. To see the
beautiful beasts prancing and plunging, as they were being led through
the streets by grooms in the royal livery, was enough to make the blood
dance in the veins of any lover of horse-flesh. And to think that they
were being led ignominiously to the auction mart to be sold under the
hammer--knocked down to the highest bidder! It was a sin and a shame
surely! And they seemed to feel it themselves; and that was the reason
they acted so obstreperously, sometimes lifting the grooms off their
feet as they reared and snorted and struck sparks with their steel-shod
hoofs from the stone pavement.

Among the crowd of schoolboys who followed the equine procession,
shrieking and yelling with glee and exciting the horses by their wanton
screams, was a handsome lad of fourteen, named Erik Carstens. He had
fixed his eyes admiringly on a coal-black, four-year-old mare, a mere
colt, which brought up the rear of the procession. How exquisitely she
was fashioned! How she danced over the ground with a light mazurka step,
as if she were shod with gu