“No, nor I; and the Queen doesn't really live in these grand rooms, either. You can only see her very own rooms from the outside, and you can only imagine what they are like; but they point out which is the drawing-room and which is her sitting-room, and they don't call them grand anything, for a comfort, so I suppose they're lovely and homelike, like other people's; but they do look out on a grand garden—the East Terrace they call it. You saw it the same day we drove down the Long Walk. You remember the bushes all trimmed up to a point, and the flower-beds and the statues, and the fountains playing in the centre. And near the Terrace, Donald, is the Photographer's Studio. Think of having a place all fitted up just to take the pictures of the Queen's own family! That's kind of regal, isn't it? But the finest thing of all is the Royal Pantry. I would give a good deal to look in it. It is crammed full of all sorts of gold things and a gold dinner service of one hundred and fifty pieces.”
Donald's eyes opened as wide at this as extreme drowsiness would let them, so that it was easy to discover that the little convalescent was growing pretty tired.
“Well, you must just see it all for yourself some day,” Marie-Celeste wisely concluded; “and you had better go to bed now, Donald.”
CHAPTER VII.—“AND NOW GOOD-MORNING,”
Never in all this world was there a happier little host than Harold Harris when he found how kindly his guests from across the water were taking to the life at Windsor; but who would not have taken kindly to it, I should like to know? The Queen herself, in her great castle on the hill, could not have planned more for the comfort of her guests than did Harold in his little castle beneath it; and, indeed, this name of Little Castle had somehow attached itself to the pretty stone house, with its round tower and moat-shaped terrace.