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. I leave thee free to make thy
choice. See! I clasp my hands behind me--thus. Then I shall turn and
walk slowly up the lawn. So soon as my back is turned, pluck thou two
roses. Fly with those little brown feet after me, and place one of the
roses--whichever thou wilt--in my hands. Then run home thyself, with
the other. Farewell, little Angel-child. May the blessing of
Bethlehem's purple hills be ever thine."

The Bishop turned and paced slowly up the lawn, head bent, hands
clasped behind him.

The small bare feet made no sound on the turf. But before the Bishop
was half-way across the lawn, the stem of a rose was thrust between his
fingers. As they closed over it, a gay ripple of laughter sounded
behind him, fading fleetly into the distance.

The Angel-child had made her choice, and had flown with her own rose,
leaving the Bishop's destiny in his clasped hands.

Without pausing or looking round, he paced onward, gazing for a while
at the sparkling water; then beyond it, to the distant woods through
which the Knight was riding.

Presently he turned, still with his hands behind him, passed to the
garden-door, left standing wide, and entered the library.

But not until he kneeled before the shrine of Saint Joseph did he move
forward his right hand, and bring into view the rose placed therein by
Verity.

It was many years since the Bishop had wept. He had not thought ever
to weep again. Yet, at sight of the rose, plucked for him by the
Angel-child, something gave way within him, and he fell to weeping
helplessly.

Saint Joseph, bearded and stalwart, seemed to look do