"Why, it's a throne," he laughed.
"It needs a roof," he whimsically told her when his day's work was done. Deftly twisting and intertwining the branches of tree and bush, he wove a canopy of living green that shadowed the curious nest and warded it snugly from wind and water.
Early next morning Bles slipped down and improved the nest; adding foot-rests to make the climbing easy, peep-holes east and west, a bit of carpet over the bark, and on the rough main trunk, a little picture in blue and gold of Bougereau's Madonna. Zora sat hidden and alone in silent ecstasy. Bles peeped in—there was not room to enter: the girl was staring silently at the Madonna. She seemed to feel rather than hear his presence, and she inquired softly:
"Who's it, Bles?"
"The mother of God," he answered reverently.
"And why does she hold a lily?"
"It stands for purity—she was a good woman."
"With a baby," Zora added slowly.
"Yes—" said Bles, and then more quickly—"It is the Christ Child—God's baby."
"God is the father of all the little babies, ain't He, Bles?"