"I'm here, Princess," corrected Maizie, "right in front of you. You can
touch me with your hand. And besides, I had to ask that question. It was
burning on my tongue."

Suzanna did not stir. At last: "I'm not going to school today," she half
chanted. "A princess does not go to school. She wanders through the
fields and over the mountains and when she returns to her palace she
eats roses smothered in cream."

"Oh," cried Maizie. "Rose petals are bitter and beside we only have
cream on Sundays."

Suzanna turned away. Sometimes she found it a trifle difficult to play
with Maizie. She went slowly, majestically down the stairs and into the
little parlor. She regretted she had no train, since she might switch it
about as she walked. But she could _think_ she had a train, and ever and
anon glance behind to see that it had not curled up.

In the parlor she stood and looked about her. Her physical eyes saw the
worn spots in the carpet, the picture of her father's mother, faded and
dim, her own "crayon," the old horsehair sofa and chair, and the piano
with its yellow keys and its scratched case. But with her inner eyes
she beheld a lovely rose-colored room, heaped with soft rugs and
satin-lined chairs; fine, soft-grained woods, and a harp studded with
rare jewels.

At first she stood alone. Then by a slight wave of her hand she
commanded the appearance of many ladies and gentlemen who came and bowed
low before her. While she was still living in her vision, her father