The Queen Who Flew. Ford Ford Madox

were closed. Here and there an arrow was sticking into the walls or the doors.

      "Do people never walk about the streets?" the Queen asked.

      "It wouldn't be safe when there's a revolution on," the beggar answered.

      Just at that moment they arrived before the door of a house that, like all the rest, was closely shut up. Over the door was written —

"JAMES GRUBB,Honey-cake Maker."

      Here the beggar stopped and began to beat violently at the door with his staff.

      The sound of the blows echoed along the streets, – and then from within came dismal shouts of "Murder!" "Police!" "Fire!"

      But the beggar called back, "Nonsense, James Grubb; it's only a lady come for some honey-cakes."

      Then, after a long while, there was a clatter of chains behind the door, and it was opened just an inch, so that the Queen could see an old man's face peeping cautiously out at her. The sight seemed to reassure him, for he opened the door and bobbed nervously. At other times he would have bowed suavely.

      "Will your ladyship be pleased to enter?" he said. "I want to shut the door; it is so dangerous to have it open with all these revolutions about."

      The Queen complied with his request, and found herself in a little dark shop, only lighted dimly through the round air-holes in the shutters.

      "Give this man some honey-cakes," she said; and the honey-cake maker seemed only too delighted.

      "How many shall I give him, madam?" he said.

      "As many as he wants, of course," the Queen answered sharply.

      The beggar proceeded to help himself, and made a clean sweep of all the cakes that were on the counter. There was a big hole in his coat, and into that he thrust them, so that the lining at last was quite full.

      The honey-cake maker was extremely pleased at the sight, for he had not expected to sell any cakes that day.

      When the cakes had all disappeared there was an awkward pause.

      "Now I'll go on again," the Queen said.

      "But you haven't paid," the honey-cake maker said in some alarm.

      "Pay!" said the Queen. "What do you mean?"

      "Paid for the cakes, I mean," the honey-cake maker said.

      "I don't understand you," she answered. "I am the Queen; I never pay for what I eat."

      "She is the Queen," the beggar said; "and if you don't take care she'll have your head off."

      The honey-cake maker jumped back so suddenly that he sat down in a tub of honey and stuck there doubled up with his knees to his chin.

      "O Lord! O Lord!" he said. "What shall I do? what shall I do? – all my cakes gone, and never to be paid!"

      "You won't want to be paid if your head's cut off," the beggar said.

      But the Queen answered, "Nonsense. No one's going to cut your head off; and I dare say, if you ask them at the palace, they'll pay you, whatever it means. Just pull him out of the tub," she continued to the beggar, for the unfortunate honey-baker, not being able to move, remained gasping in the tub.

      So the beggar pulled him out, and, for all his fright, his business spirit did not desert him.

      "Will your Majesty deign to sign an order for payment?" he said.

      And the Queen answered, "Good gracious, no, I won't; the ink always gets into my finger-nails."

      The honey-cake maker bowed lower still. "At least, your Majesty, deign to give me your signet-ring as a token."

      "Oh, I'll give you that," the Queen said; and she drew it from her finger.

      The honey-cake maker suddenly smote his forehead with his hand, as though an idea had struck him.

      "You might carry that ladder out for me," he said to the beggar, indicating a ladder that lay along the passage wall.

      The beggar did as he was asked, and placed it against the house.

      "Whatever is he going to do now?" the Queen thought to herself, and, being in the street, awaited the turn of events.

      Presently the honey-cake maker came out, carrying a pail of black paint and a large brush, and, thus equipped, ascended the ladder and began to paint, under the

"JAMES GRUBB,Honey-cake Maker,""to Her Majesty the Queen and the R —"

      But he had got no further than that, when, with tumultuous shouts, a body of soldiers came rushing round a corner, and, seeing the honey-cake maker on the ladder and his door open, they at once tumbled pell-mell into the shop.

      No sooner did the unfortunate maker of cakes see this, than, in his haste to descend the ladder, his foot slipped, and he came to the ground, with the paint out of the pot running dismally all over his head.