“But the beauty of it was,” she continued, after meditating a moment over the Queen's answer, “that little Isabel was really a darling, and that the King called her 'his dear little sister,' and really loved her; because sometimes kings and queens do not love each other at all.”
“And sometimes they do and Her Majesty spoke so seriously, and with such a depth of earnestness, that Marie-Celeste, and Albert too, for that matter, looked up at her in wondering silence.
“But go on with the story, dear,” the Queen added; “we shall make but slow progress if we allow too many interruptions.”
“Well, it wasn't a bit strange that the King loved her, for even the King's men who were sent to bring her to England thought she was perfectly lovely, and indeed she was a most unusual little girl. They say that her father was very foolish, but good, and that her mother was wicked, but clever, and that the little Isabel was like her father for goodness and her mother for cleverness. And they say, too, that she was never twice alike; that sometimes she was grave and sedate as could be, and sometimes she was full of fun and frolic, but always so sweet and good and innocent that she was like a bright little star in those dark times, for there was war between England and France, and they say only the children can be light-hearted in war time.”
“Have you any idea, Marie-Celeste, how this little Isabel looked?” asked the Queen, keeping the little jewelled case close covered in her hand.
“Oh, yes; I think I know exactly. She was fair, but her eyes were black, with dark lashes curling over them, for her grandmother was an Italian, you know; and her head was put on her shoulders in a pretty sort of way, and she had a cunning, sweet look on her face that just made people love her.”
“Would you like to see her picture?” and the Queen, attempting to open the case she held in her hand, both the children were instantly bending over it.