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HE King walked in his garden. His appearance indicated unrest; trouble in the palace had caused him to retire to the garden in irritation. He of the motley garb crouched on the ground near his royal master. In his hand was a red rose that ever and anon he touched caressingly with his other hand.

"Good Fool," quoth the King, "art thou wed?"

"Nay, sire," was the answer; "it may seem strange—a Fool and yet unwed; but the gods in making me a Fool felt it but just to award me some compensation."

"Would that the gods had made me, too, a Fool," murmured the King.

The great sombre eyes of the Fool swept over the King for a moment, and the corners of his mouth drooped ever so slightly.

"Then, my Fool," said the King, "there be no happy marriage? Is that what Folly's wisdom teaches?"

"Nay, O King," replied the Fool, "there still be miracles now and again, and also there be grossly stupid folk who wed and are content. To be happy in any condition one must needs be so high that trifles may not touch, or so dense that, touching never so roughly, they be not felt."

"Thou motley one," said the King, "thou givest me food for thought. I would walk alone; stop thou here," and the King moved slowly away until the blossoming shrubs hid him from sight.

The Fool watched him as he went, a great pity in his eyes, then he kissed the rose that he held and looked up toward an oriel in the Queen's wing of the palace.

"Dear King," he whispered, "how couldst thou know that happiness is only for gods and Fools?—gods, to whom all things are possible, and Fools, because of their folly," and again his eyes climbed swiftly to the oriel window and again he kissed the rose.