"That is a hydrangea," said Una, in a delightfully prim and pedantic fashion; and then she slipped back to her wall-papering at a penny three-farthings a yard.

"What b'est going to call the new maiden?" shouted the blacksmith a few moments later over the palace gates.

"Hydrangea," answered King Heathman grimly. Then he went into the state apartments to break the news to his wife, leaving the blacksmith to have a fit upon the road, or to go on to his smithy and have it there.

For the first time Queen Heathman rebelled. She said it was ridiculous to give the child a name like that: she was surprised that the rector should have thought of it, and she--

But at that point her husband interrupted with the famous remark of the White Knight to Alice "'Tis my own invention."

This gave Queen Heathman free licence to exercise her tongue. She talked botany for some time, and concluded with such words as: "You'll call the poor maids vegetables next. If us ha' another maiden you'll call her Broad Bean, I reckon, and the next Scarlet Runner."

"One Scarlet Runner be plenty, my dear," said her husband, with regal pleasantry.

"What do ye mean?"

"Bain't your tongue one, my dear?"

This was a libel, for Queen Heathman is remarkably silent--for a woman.

She had to laugh at her husband's little Joke. They have always been a devoted couple, and this little tiff was in perfect good-humour.

Finally, King Heathman went off to the rectory, where he discovered the court chaplain and the Home Secretary chatting upon the lawn. Without any preamble he disclosed his difficulty, and proposed that the fifteenth princess should be named Hydrangea. There was no seconder. The motion was declared lost, and the subject was thrown open for discussion.

The Home Secretary suggested that the princess just born and her eleven successors should be given the names of the months; and when he rolled forth such stately t.i.tles as Januaria, Februaria, Martia, His Majesty trembled. However, it occurred to him there might not be sufficient princesses to exhaust the months, and he stated with much dignity of language that he should not like to have an incomplete set. Then the Christian virtues were suggested, Faith, Patience, Charity, Mercy, Hope; but King Heathman would have none of them, not because he despised the virtues, but because he considered that his daughters had them all.

Then the rector interposed in his quiet manner:

"The child shall be called Serena."

"What do 'en mean, sir?" asked King Heathman eagerly.

"It means free from care."

"That's it, sir--that's it," said His Majesty, expressing satisfaction in his usual way.

"It is an appropriate name," the rector went on. "It implies a perfectly happy condition. There may be dangers, but the girl shall not know of them. There may be difficulties, but they shall not trouble her--at least, we will hope so," he added with a smile.

"Thank ye, sir," said King Heathman. "And what will be the next name?"

he asked hopefully.

"The next?" said the rector, still in his cla.s.sical musings. "Why, the next child shall be called Placida."

But for some reason or other the Princess Placida has never come to claim her name. Serena appears to be the last. She is still a toddler.

Almost any day of the week you may see her, fat and jolly, and extremely free from care, staggering between Septima and Octava as they go a-milking. She is generally embracing a yellow and very ugly cat, in lieu of a doll. If you ask her name, she is just able to lisp, "I'se Swena."

The gossips of Lew have revenged themselves upon King Heathman. They refuse to call the baby Serena. They call her Annie.

And they are all living happily ever afterwards.