They buried the lord in the choir,
And out of her bosom there grew a red rose,
And out of her lover’s a brier-ier-ier,
And out of her lover’s a brier.
Miss Salome applauds vigorously.
“One more,” she begs.
The Child’s heart grows big with happiness. That she should love it so, and yet with it pleasure others! It is too much joy. She will make a special prayer to-night and thank God, as does her grandmother, for unexpected bounty.
“I will sing, ‘Come with thy lute,’” she says. It is a quaint, old-fashioned tune, and her voice rises and falls, and reaches for the notes with an almost pathetic feeling for their beauty:
Come with thy lute to the fountain,