“No; I am Chloris, the goddess of flowers,” she answered, entering into the spirit of his jesting speech.
“Give me, then, O goddess, of your treasures!”
“Violet, rose, and cyclamen! take them all,” she cried merrily, and threw a rain of many-colored flowers on the laughing, upturned face of the young man. Then, while he bent to pick up one crimson bud which had fallen at his feet, she burst out into one of those old English songs her father had taught her:—
“Rose and myrtle all are twining,
In their beauty thus combining,
To become a chaplet fair
For my shepherd’s golden hair.
Fa la! la! la!
My Colin dear.”
“Clearly,” quoth Maurice, with a smile, “this wreath is meant for me, for I have golden hair.”