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Rh It’s a sad, a tragic tale, Matilda. I was once as fat as you are.”

“I’m not so very fat,” said Matilda, indignantly.

“Well,” said the Princess impatiently, “I was quite fat enough anyhow. And then I got thin—”

“But how?”

“Because they would not let me have my favourite pudding every day.”

“What a shame!” said Matilda, “and what is your favourite pudding?”

“Bread and milk, of course, sprinkled with rose leaves—and with pear-drops in it.”

Of course, Matilda went at once to the King, and while she was on her way the Cockatoucan happened to laugh. When she reached the King, he was in no condition for ordering dinner, for he had turned into a villa-residence, replete with every modern improvement. Matilda only recognised him, as he stood sadly in the Park, by the crown that stuck crookedly on one of the chimney-pots, and the border of ermine along the garden path. So she ordered the Princess’s favourite pudding on her own responsibility, and the whole Court had it every day for dinner, till there was no single courtier but loathed the