SIR PETER GAVE IT INTO THE TINY FINGERS
Burbage and Farquharson stood by the garden-gate, looking in. The golden glow of late afternoon was over all. The roses nodded their heavy heads all about them. The gentle murmur of the flowing river, lapping the old stairs at the end of the garden, could be faintly heard.
Sir Peter cut the thorns from the rose, and gave it to the baby, leaning forward in its young mother's arms.
"Isn't it a pretty sight?" whispered Burbage.
"The prettiest sight that ever was in the world," said Farquharson, fumbling for her handkerchief.
THE END