The Bishop beckoned.
The little maid stole through the archway; then, gaining courage flew
over the turf, and stood between the Bishop and the roses.
"How camest thou here, my little one?" questioned Symon of Worcester,
in his softest tones.
"The big gate stood open, sir, and I ran in."
"And what is thy name, my little maid?"
"Verity," whispered the child, shyly, blushing to speak her own name.
"Ah," murmured the Bishop. "Hath Truth indeed come in at my open gate?"
Then, smiling into the little face lifted so confidingly to his: "Dost
thou want something, Angel-child, that I can give thee?"
One little bare, brown foot rubbed itself nervously over the other.
Five little brown, bare toes wriggled themselves into the grass.
"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.
"Blessed 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.
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