goats in the carriage-house were his royal steeds, and that Joyce was a
queen whom he had come to visit.

[Illustration: A LESSON IN PATRIOTISM.]

But it came to an end, as all beautiful things must do. The bells in
the village rang four, and Prince Ethelried started up as Cinderella
must have done when the pumpkin coach disappeared. He was no longer a
king's son; he was only Jules, the little goatherd, who must hurry back
to the field before the coming of Brossard.

Joyce went with him to the carriage-house. Together they swung open the
great door. Then an exclamation of dismay fell from Joyce's lips. All
over the floor were scattered scraps of leather and cloth and hair, the
kind used in upholstering. The goats had whiled away the hours of their
imprisonment by chewing up the cushions of the pony cart.

Jules turned pale with fright. Knowing so little of the world, he judged
all grown people by his knowledge of Henri and Brossard. "Oh, what will
they do to us?" he gasped.

"Nothing at all," answered Joyce, bravely, although her heart beat twice
as fast as usual as monsieur's accusing face rose up before her.

"It was all my fault," said Jules, ready to cry. "What must I do?" Joyce
saw his distress, and with quick womanly tact recognized her duty as
hostess. It would never do to let this, his first Thanksgiving Day, be
clouded by a single unhappy remembrance. She would pretend that it was a
part of their last game; so she waved her hand, and said, in a
theatrical voice, "You forget, Prince Ethelried, that in the castle of