must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her
voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any
practical good!" And he went into his room, and lay down on his little
pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell
asleep.

And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the
Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang
with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down
and listened. All night long she sang and the thorn went deeper and
deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.

She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl.
And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous
rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at
first, as the mist that hangs over the river--pale as the feet of the
morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in
a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the
rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.

But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn.
"Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will
come before the rose is finished."

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and
louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul
of a man and a maid.

And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the
flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the
bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart
remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the
heart of a rose.

And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn.
"Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will
come before the rose is finished."

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn
touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter,
bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang
of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the
tomb.

And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern
sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the
heart.

But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to
beat, and a film came ov