"Be not afraid," said the Bishop. "Ask what thou wilt and I will give it thee, unto the half of my kingdom. Yea, even the head of Father Benedict, in a charger."
"A rose," said the child, eagerly ignoring the proffered head of Father
Benedict and half the Bishop's kingdom. "A rose from that lovely tree!
Their pretty faces looked at me over the wall."
The Bishop's lips still smiled; but his eyes, of a sudden, grew grave.
"Blessèd Saint Joseph!" he murmured beneath his breath, and crossed himself.
Then, bending over the little maid, he laid his hand upon the tumbled curls.
"Truly, my little Verity," he said, "thou shalt gather thyself a rose, and thou shall gather one for me. I leave thee free to make thy choice. See! I clasp my hands behind me—thus. Then I shall turn and walk slowly up the lawn. So soon as my back is turned, pluck thou two roses. Fly with those little brown feet after me, and place one of the roses—whichever thou wilt—in my hands. Then run home thyself, with the other. Farewell, little Angel-child. May the blessing of Bethlehem's purple hills be ever thine."
The Bishop turned and paced slowly up the lawn, head bent, hands clasped behind him.
The small bare feet made no sound on the turf. But before the Bishop was half-way across the lawn, the stem of a rose was thrust between his fingers. As they closed over it, a gay ripple of laughter sounded behind him, fading fleetly into the distance.
The Angel-child had made her choice, and had flown with her own rose, leaving the Bishop's destiny in his clasped hands.
Without pausing or looking round, he paced onward, gazing for a while at the sparkling water; then beyond it, to the distant woods through which the Knight was riding.