f kings; no, no. I am handier with a book than
with a scepter; I'd liever be a man than a puppet, and a puppet I am--a
figurehead on the prow of the ship, but I do not guide it. Who care for
me save those who have their ends to gain? None, save the archbishop,
who yet dreams of making a king of me. And these are not my people who
surround me; when I die, small care. I shall have left in the passing
scarce a finger mark in the dust of time."

"Ah, Sire, if only you would be cold, unfriendly, avaricious. Be stone
and rule with a rod of iron. Make the people fear you, since they refuse
to love you; be stone."

"You can mold lead, but you can not sculpture it; and I am lead."

"Yes; not only the metal, but the verb intransitive. Ah, could the fires
of ambition light your soul!"

"My soul is a blackened grate of burnt-out fires, of which only a coal
remains."

And the king turned in his seat and looked across the crisp green
lawns to the beds of flowers, where, followed by a maid at a respectful
distance, a slim young girl in white was cutting the hardy geraniums,
dahlias and seed poppies.

"God knows what her legacy will be!"

"It is for you to make it, Sire."

Both men continued to remark the girl. At length she came toward
them, her arms laden with flowers. She was at the age of ten, with a
beautiful, serious face, which some might have called prophetic.
Her hair was dark, shining like coal and purple, and gossamer in its
fineness; her skin had the blue-whiteness of milk; while from under long
black lashes two luminous brown eyes looked thoughtfully at the world.
She smiled at the king, who eyed her fondly, and gave her unengaged hand
to the Englishman, who kissed it.

"And how is your Royal Highness this fine day? he asked, patting the
hand before letting it go.

"Will you have a dahlia, Monsieur?" With a grave air she selected a
flower and slipped it through his button-hole.

"Does your Highness know the language of the flowers?" the Englishman
asked.

"Dahlias signify dignity and elegance; you are dignified, Monsieur, and
dignity is elegance."

"Well!" cried the Englishman, smiling with pleasure; "that is turned as
adroitly as a woman of thirty."

"And am I not to have one?" asked the king, his eyes full of paternal
love and pride.

"They are for your Majesty's table," she answered.

"Your Majesty!" cried the king in mimic despair. "Was ever a father
treated thus? Your Majesty! Do you not know, my