Once again he paced the full length of the lawn, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes looking beyond the river to the distant hills.

“Will she come, or shall I go?  Shall I depart, or will she return?”

As he turned at the parapet, a voice seemed to whisper with insistence:  “A white rose for her pure presence in the Cloister.  A red rose for Rome.”

And, as he reached the wall again, the bright eyes of a little maiden peeped at him through the archway.

He stood quite still and looked at her.

Never had he seen so lovely an elf.  A sunbeam had made its home in each lock of her tumbled hair.  Her little brown face had the soft bloom of a ripe nectarine; her eyes, the timid glance of a startled fawn.

The Bishop smiled.

The bright eyes lost their look of fear, and sparkled responsive.

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.  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.