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 titles 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 classical 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."