“Nothing much,” replied Sweet William; “he is still trying to reach the sun in high hops, and his friend the dial has given him up as a bad job. Well, and has Master Mustardseed been making himself agreeable? Are you any less bored than you used to be? Is the schoolroom quite as commonplace as you were pleased at one time to imagine?”
Philomène blushed. “I am afraid you must have thought me discontented,” she said, humbly; “but indeed I am not at all bored any longer. How should I be, with Master Mustardseed to tell me stories whenever we are alone together? And, oh, you can’t think what lovely stories they are! He began with one about a poor apprentice who was taught his trade by the fairies’ own cobbler, and in the end he married a princess.”
“Dear me! how enthusiastic we are, to be sure,” remarked Sweet William, with his head in the air; “you talk as though there were nobody who could tell stories but Master Mustardseed, which is very far from being the case.”
“Oh, I know you could tell beautiful stories too, if you tried,” said Philomène hastily, “and indeed I wish you would, for there is nothing I should like better.”
“Very well,” said Sweet William, “but I’m afraid my story hasn’t a princess in it, only a goose-girl who married a troll.”
“Is it a true story?” asked Philomène.
“I daresay it’s true enough as far as it goes,” replied Sweet William, and Philomène wondered how far it went.
“And where did the troll live?” she asked again.
“He lived at home,” retorted Sweet William; “and really you must not ask so many questions; it quite puts me off.”