"The prince had his guitar slung over his shoulder by a ribbon," said Dorothy. "See the picture," and she slipped from the hammock, and offered the book that he might see the illustration.
"I'm glad he carried his guitar instead of a banjo," he said.
"Why are you glad of that?" Flossie asked.
"Oh, because I really am, in fact, I might even say I am delighted," he replied.
"I do believe he intends to serenade those children," said a handsome woman, to her friend who sat beside her; "he is a brilliant man, and one who is blessed with many talents, and one of his greatest charms is his love of children. He will go far out of his way to afford them a bit of fun."
That evening, when nearly every one had left the piazza, and all of the children were in their rooms, the soft twanging of guitar strings floated up toward Flossie's window.
She was not yet asleep, and she sat up in bed, and listened.
Yes, it was a guitar! Was it Uncle Harry's?
A little prelude softly played, drew her toward the window.
She crept closer, and peeped out. Yes, there he was, looking right up toward her window.