Ruth took them from her, and, turning back the sheath of one of the dying buds, looked at the perfect silken lining of it.
“Some one took a lot of trouble over making that,” she said. “But suppose you listen to my story.” Moira’s small hot hand crept into hers, and she began again.
“There was once a little Earth Elemental who had made the most beautiful flower in the world. I think it was a crimson rose, and it had all the summer in its scent. And the little Elemental wondered if it was beautiful enough for the highest prize of all.”
“At Battersea Flower Show?” asked Elaine.
“No. The highest prize in the world of the Elementals is to serve. And one day a child came and cut the rose very carefully with a pair of scissors, and the Elemental was sad, for it had made the flower its home and loved it very much. But the child whispered to the rose that it was going into one of the dark places which men had made in the world, with no sunshine, or summer, or joy, or beauty, to take them a message to say that God’s world was still beautiful, and the sun and stars still shone, and morning was still full of joy and evening of peace. Then the Elemental was not sorry any more, for its rose had won the highest prize.”
Elaine’s Pithian armour had fallen from her; out of the little pert face looked the soul of a child. She had lost her self-consciousness for the moment.
“And what became of the Elemental?” she asked.
“The Elemental did not leave its home then. It went with it. And when the rose had done its work and slipped away into the Fountain of all Beauty, the Elemental slipped away with it too.”
“Where is the Fountain of all Beauty?”
“In the Heart of God.”