all this mean? I—I like you! I don't care if you are the Dauphin! Say, will you forgive me, little Citizen Prince?" The generous heart of the royal child was as quick to forgive as it was to take offence, and he held out his hand with a charming smile. Jean took it, glanced furtively around, and shook it heartily.

"I hope no one sees me doing this!" he muttered. The Dauphin, now all restored to good humour, seated himself on an upturned box and nursed his knees with his clasped hands.

"Let us talk awhile!" he begged. "I do not see any children now, except my sister, and I'm often very lonely. Please tell me your name."

"I am called Jean Dominique Mettot," answered his new friend. "That is the name they gave me in the Foundling Hospital from which the Citizeness Clouet took me."

"Oh, did you come from the Foundling Hospital?" eagerly replied the Dauphin. "Why, I used to go there often with the Queen, my mother. We brought food and money for the sick children. I loved to go there! I never wanted to come away!"

"Did the Citizeness Queen really go there?" marvelled Jean. "Why, she can't be such a bad one, after all!" The Dauphin's face grew sad.

"Do you know," he said, "I believe that people say a great many false things about my father and mother because they do not know the truth,—they do not know how really good they are!"

"Oh, they say bad enough things!" remarked Jean, cheerfully. "You ought to hear a man they call Citizen Marat! He gets up on a bench in our street and tells the people that the king and queen are starving them just for the pastime of hearing them howl for bread,—that they like that kind of music!"

"It is not true! It is not true!" repeated the Dauphin with tears in his eyes. "Oh, if you could only see my father, you would not think so!" Then, glancing over his shoulder he exclaimed gladly, "Why, here he is now!" Jean made a movement to put down Yvonne and take to his heels, but the Dauphin begged him to stay. They all stood silent, watching the approach of a large, stout man who walked slowly with his hands clasped behind him. His face was gentle, thoughtful and kindly. Across his coat were stretched the ribbons of several royal orders.

"Father!" called the Dauphin when the King drew near enough. "These are my little new friends, Yvonne and Jean. Won't you speak to them?" The King smiled at his son and came over to the fence.

"Good-morning, my children!" he said kindly, laying a hand on Jean's shoulder. "I am glad to know and greet the friends of my son." Jean looked up into the fatherly eyes, and noticed the sad lines about the gentle mouth. He was sorely puzzled in his boyish heart. Certainly this was not the horrible monster such as he had heard the King described in the Faubourg St. Antoine. The boy was thoroughly in sympathy with the downtrodden people who were rising at last to claim their liberty and a few other inalienable human rights. But there was something wrong somewhere! At any rate, this royal gentleman had that about him which compelled his reverence and trust. Snatching off his red liberty-cap, Jean bent his knee and kissed the hand of Louis XVI of France!

"Yvonne," remarked Jean, as they strolled homeward, "we—at least I will have to pay for this little holiday!"

"Oh, Jean, I'm sorry! I ought to take part of the punishment, for I made you take me," sympathised Yvonne.

"Mother Clouet won't beat you, you can warrant, but this is the day when I should have carried the wash to the Rue du Bac," explained her companion. "Oh, well! I have had my dance, now I must pay the fiddler!" It was evident that this was not Jean's first attempt at playing truant. Then a new thought struck him and he stopped short.

"Yvonne, what do you think of the poor little Citizen Dauphin?"

"I love him!" she answered simply.

"Well, I do too, and yet I suppose I ought not, if I am to be a good citizen of the Nation. Kings are wrong! We've had enough kings, and they've trodden us under foot and robbed us of our rights for centuries. And yet this little fellow might make a good one. Who knows! And there's his father, too—the Citizen King. How did you like him?"

"He seemed very, very kind," answered Yvonne, "and very sad. I felt sorry for him. And I don't believe all the things they say about him, either. Why did you kiss his hand, Jean?"

"I don't know! Something made me. Perhaps it's because he is so different from what we thought. But, see here, Yvonne! Let me tell you that if anyone finds out how we feel, or that I kissed his hand, our heads won't be safe on our shoulders! Do you know that?" The child made a frightened gesture of assent.

"Then keep it to yourself!" said Jean, shortly. They walked on in silence, and with dragging steps. It was plain that they were in no hurry to get home.

"Shall we go to see the little prince again?" inquired Yvonne.

"I'd certainly like to. We will try to go soon,—as soon as I can make up my mind to another beating!" answered Jean, whimsically. Then in a more sober manner:

"He's lonesome, poor little fellow! It's a shame for the people to take away his liberty and keep him cooped up in that palace without any little friends, I say!"

They turned at length into the Rue de Lille, a narrow, dirty street, rather deserted at the time, since most of the inhabitants were off at the Place de la Révolution, singing the "Marseillaise," shouting for Danton, or dancing the Carmagnole. At the door of the house numbered "670," stood a woman in a short cotton dress and wooden shoes. She was shading her eyes and looking far up the street, in the direction opposite to that from which the children were approaching.

"There's Mère Clouet now!" whispered Jean. Suddenly the woman turned, caught sight of the pair, and made a dash at Jean who ducked, slid aside and came out unharmed quite behind the enraged laundress. But Mère Clouet was agile, and moreover well acquainted with Jean's system of manœuvres!

"Ah, you rascal!" she shouted, catching him deftly by the collar. "You will run away for the whole day, and leave me to carry home the wash myself! You will entrap my little Yvonne and force her to accompany you, scaring her good mother almost beyond her wits lest the child come to harm! To bed you go this night with never a bite or a sup, and lucky you'll be if there's a whole bone in your lazy, idle body!"

With her great, muscular arms she shook Jean till his teeth clicked together, dropping him only when sheer exhaustion compelled her. Poor Yvonne stood by, trembling, wide-eyed and frightened. Citizeness Clouet having temporarily disposed of Jean, turned her attention to her daughter.

"And as for thee, naughty little mouse!—" Then her eyes fell for the first time on the flowers.

"But by all the saints, where did you get that magnificent bouquet, child? Never since I was a girl in Normandy have I seen such blossoms, except on the altars in the churches at Eastertide!"

"Why, Mother, the dear little Citizen Dauphin gave them to me!" exclaimed Yvonne. Then she cast a frightened glance at Jean, remembering too late his warning on the way home. Jean himself trembled, and expected that Mère Clouet would break into a torrent of abuse and invective against the little prince. But to their astonishment she replied:

"The poor little fellow! Well do I remember how his mother brought him to the great church of