his way to the inn, and passed into the principal chamber, where
St. George now sat alone, musing over the chances of the fight,
and the sad stories of rapine and of wrong that had so lately
been poured into his sympathetic ears.

"May I come in, St. George?" said the Boy politely, as he paused
at the door. "I want to talk to you about this little matter of
the dragon, if you're not tired of it by this time."

"Yes, come in, Boy," said the Saint kindly. "Another tale of
misery and wrong, I fear me. Is it a kind parent, then, of whom
the tyrant has bereft you? Or some tender sister or brother?
Well, it shall soon be avenged."

"Nothing of the sort," said the Boy. "There's a misunderstanding
somewhere, and I want to put it right. The fact is, this is
a GOOD dragon."

"Exactly," said St. George, smiling pleasantly, "I quite
understand. A good DRAGON. Believe me, I do not in the least
regret that he is an adversary worthy of my steel, and no feeble
specimen of his noxious tribe."

"But he's NOT a noxious tribe," cried the Boy distressedly.
"Oh dear, oh dear, how STUPID men are when they get an idea
into their heads! I tell you he's a GOOD dragon, and a friend
of mine, and tells me the most beautiful stories you ever heard,
all about old times and when he was little. And he's been so
kind to mother, and mother'd do anything for him. And father
likes him too, though father doesn't hold with art and poetry