In the bright warm kitchen there was dance and song, and every one there was happy, too.
That is, all but little Bebelle. He lay beside the oven, still holding tightly to the scepter, saying nothing.
Mother Jorgan brought him a bowl of hot soup. He thanked her pitifully, but would not touch it. Now and then one of the servants would come to him and shyly, but kindly, ask him to come and have some of the wassail. Shreve came down from the feast above. The baker gave him thirteen loaves for his birds, and he stopped to speak to Bebelle.
“I am sorry, Bebelle,” he said, in his timid, winning way. “But I had no chance to speak of you. It was a shame that the king refused your gift. But come, do not be sad. Every one is sorry, and things will not be made better by lying there.”
But Bebelle did not answer. The tears sprang to Shreve’s beautiful, mysterious eyes.
“Would you like to come and sleep in my cave to-night?”
Bebelle gave a little gasp.
“Oh, Shreve,” he said, “that is the greatest thing in the world that could happen to me! But somehow I feel as if that could not be—to-night.”
So Shreve of the Fields went a little sadly out into the starry night.
It grew later. Slowly and reluctantly the servants left the warm, friendly kitchen. Many stopped to speak kindly to the silent child, who lay huddled in his corner.