eir
church, Herve and his troop of black-robed monks. And before them, like
a little white dove among the ravens, ran Christine holding her uncle's
hand in one of hers, and in the other grasping the leash at which tugged
the grizzled old wolf, who was guiding them. Over many a hill and dale
and bloomy meadow he had led Herve before now, down many a lane and
village street, but never upon so important a journey as this. For this
was to be the old wolf's last long tramp with his master. And the wolf
was to choose the spot where the church should stand. Where he stopped
to rest, there would they lay the first stone.

So he led them on and on. And at last he lay down in a green spot by a
river, just the place for a beautiful church to grow up. And thenceforth
Herve the minstrel would wander no more, but bide and rest and be happy
with the wolf and Christine.

They built her an arbor near the church, in a clump of willows on the
border of a spring. It was cone-shaped and covered with straw like a
huge beehive. And Christine herself seemed like a busy bee gathering
honey as she buzzed in and out among the roses, humming little tunes
below her breath. For she was always among the flowers, as Rivanone had
been. Every Saturday morning she would rise early, and with her little
basket on her arm would go out to pick the blossoms with the dew still
on them. And every Saturday evening she came to the church with her arms
full of flowers till she looked like a bouquet of sweetness. And going
into the empty church she would busy herself with arranging the flowers
for the next morning's service. For it was her duty to see that Uncle
Herve's church was kept clean and sweet and beautiful.

And while Christine stood there putting the flowers into tall golden
vases, singing softly the songs which Rivanone had taught her, her Uncle
Herve would come creeping up the steps of the church, his hand on the
head of the wolf, who always led him to the place where he heard her
voice. Softly, very softly, as if he were doing something naughty,
Herve would pull open the heavy door, just a crack, the better to hear
her sing. Then he would put his ear to the opening; while the wolf would
thrust his nose in below, and wag his tail eagerly. But Christine's keen
ears always heard them, no matter how slyly the good blind man crept up
to that door. And it became part of the game that she should cry out
suddenly,--

"I see you, Uncle! I see you!" And thou