In one corner of the room, working very quietly, was a very pretty young girl. She was so far away from the king and queen, who were a little near-sighted, that they had not observed her as carefully as they had some of the others. But when the prince leaned forward and spoke to them, they raised their hand glasses and turned their eyes in her direction, to watch her every motion.
“We will examine the loaves as soon as they are placed in the pans,” announced the king presently; and soon he led the queen and the prince around the tables.
They came last to the place where the fair young girl was standing. The king and queen looked not only at the beautiful white loaves in the pans, but at the empty bowl in which the dough had been mixed. They looked at each other, and nodded and smiled; then at the prince, and nodded and smiled.
“What is your name, my dear?” asked the king, turning toward the table once more.
“Hildegarde,” replied the maiden, blushing with shyness.
“Come with us,” said the king and the queen leading the way; and the prince bowed low before her.
“May I escort you, Miss Hildegarde?” he asked, offering his arm, on which she hesitated to place her hand, fearing lest the flour might mark his velvet coat.
Upon this, the prince drew her hand through his arm, and they followed the king and queen.
When they reached the platform, the king took Hildegarde’s hand in his.
“We, the king and queen, judge that this young lady has won the prize because she has made bread in the best way,” he announced. “All of you have made beautiful loaves; but Hildegarde is the only one who has scraped all the dough from the bowl and paddle, wasting nothing. Let the prince present the prize. Kneel, Hildegarde.”