luscious viands, transcending his imagination of those which lay
behind Blinks the confectioner's window in Bludston: there he
succumbed to the animal; but the sports, the swing-boats, the
merry-go-round, offered no temptation. He hovered around Maisie
Shepherd like a little dog-quite content to keep her in sight. And
every two or three minutes he fumbled about his breeches to see that
the knotted treasure was safe.

The day sank into late afternoon. The children had been fed. The
weary elders had their tea. The vicarage party took a few moments'
rest in the shade of a clump of firs some distance away from the
marquee. Behind the screen lay Paul, his eyes on his goddess, his
heels in the air, a buttercup-stalk between his teeth. He felt the
comforting knot beneath his thigh. For the first time, perhaps, in
his life, he knew utter happiness. He heard the talk, but did not
listen. Suddenly, however, the sound of his own name caused him to
prick his ears. Paul Kegworthy! They were talking about him. There
could be no mistake. He slithered a foot or two nearer.

"No matter whether his people are drunkards or murderers," said the
beloved voice, "he is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in '
my life. Have you ever spoken to him, Winifred?"

"No," said the vicar's daughter. "Of course I've noticed him. Every
one does-he is remarkable."

"I don't believe he's a child of these people at all," Maisie
declared. "He's of a different clay. He's as sensitive as-as a
sensitive plant. You ought to keep your eye on him, Mr. Merewether.
I believe he's a poor little prince in a fairy tale."