At last Bebelle crept down from his stool, and slowly moved toward Shreve.
“Here is your net, Shreve,” he said.
The beautiful youth took the net and held it before him. He tugged at it, but the mended threads held as firmly as the others.
“This is nicely done, Bebelle. When I come at Christmas I will bring you some fairy moss. How is your scepter?” he asked a little shyly.
“Oh, it is almost finished. I am on ‘Patience’ now.”
Bebelle pulled the stick from his blouse, and as Shreve of the Fields bent over it, he saw that “Patience” was finished.
******
It was the eve of Christmas, and all the great castle was in a merry bustle and a wild confusion. From the little scullery-maid, who was giving the pots and pans a final scouring, to the queen herself, who was being fitted with a new crown, not a soul in the palace was idle.
The great hall was all green, and red, and white; pine, and holly, and mistletoe. The white pillars were twined with ivy and laurel; from the rafters hung great clusters of mistletoe; and the walls were banked with leaves and red berries. On each side of the royal dais stood a shining, glistening Christmas-tree; and the galleries were hung low with Christmas greens.
It was not long until the king and queen ascended their royal thrones, the queen happy because the new crown was very becoming, and the king that there was a grand feast in prospect.