spring, and fell away, so that year by year
her store became diminished. At last there was but one little paper
bag of seed left, and upon the cover was written in a strange
character, 'This is the Seed of the Thorn of the World.' But the
beautiful maiden was sad when she saw this, for she said 'All my
flowers have been sweet, and now I have but this thing left, which is
a thorn!' And she opened the paper and looked inside, and saw one poor
little seed all black and shrivelled. Through that day she pondered
what to do with it, and was very unhappy. At night she said to
herself, 'I will not plant this one; I will throw it away rather than
plant it.' And she went to the window, and tore the paper, and threw
out the little seed into the darkness."

"Poor little thing!" said Hedwig. She was listening intently.

"She threw it out, and as it fell, all the air was full of music, sad
and sweet, so that she wondered greatly. The next day she looked out
of the window, and saw, between the moat and the castle wall, a new
plant growing. It looked black and uninviting, but it had come up so
fast that it had already laid hold on the rough gray stones. At the
falling of the night it reached far up towards the turret, a great
sharp-pointed vine, with only here and there a miserable leaf on it.
'I am sorry I threw it out,' said the maiden. 'It is the Thorn of the
World, and the people who pass will think it defaces my castle.' But
when it was dark again the air was full of music. The maiden went to
the window, for she could not sleep, and she called out, asking who
it was that sang. Then a sweet, low voice came up to her from the
moat. 'I am the Thorn,' it said, 'I sing in the dark, for I am
growing.'--'Sing on, Thorn,' said she, 'and grow if you will.' But in
the morning when she awoke, her window was darkened, for the Thorn had
grown to be a mighty tree, and its topmost shoots were black against
the sky. She wondered whether this uncouth plant would bear anything
but music. So she spoke to it.

"'Thorn,' she said, 'why have you no flowers?'

"'I am the Thorn of the World,' it answered, 'and I can bear no
flowers until the hand that planted me has tended me, and pruned me,
and shaped me to be its own. If you had planted me like the rest, it
would have been easy for you. But you planted me unwillingly, down
below you by the moat, and I have had far to climb.'

"'But my hands are so delicate,' said the maiden. 'You will hurt me,
I