“I do remember,” said the Bishop.  “I see thee now, coming across the courtyard, bread and meat in thy hands—­a little lad, bareheaded in the sunshine, glowing with pleasure because the starling ran to meet thee, shouting ‘Hugh!’”

“Then listen, dear Father. (Ah, how often have I wished to tell you this!) Soon after you were gone, that starling rudely taught me a hard lesson.  Gaining strength, one day he left the courtyard, ran through the buttery, and wandered in the garden.  I followed, whistling and watching.  It greatly delighted the bird to find himself on turf.  There had been rain.  The grass was wet.  Presently a rash worm, gliding from its hole, adventured forth.  The starling ran to the worm, calling it ‘Hugh.’  ‘Hugh!  Hugh!’ he cried, and tugged it from the earth.  ‘Hugh!  Hugh!’ and pecked it, where helpless it lay squirming.  Then, shouting ‘Hugh!’ once more, gobbled it down.  I stood with heavy heart, for I had thought that starling loved me with a true, personal love, when he ran at my approach shouting my name.  Yet now I knew it was the food I carried, he called ‘Hugh’; it was the food, not me, he loved.  Glad was I when, his wing grown strong, he flew away.  It cut me to the heart to hear the worms, the grubs, the snails, the caterpillars, all called ’Hugh’!”

The Bishop smiled, then sighed.  “Poor little eager heart,” he said, “learning so hard a lesson, all alone!  Yet is it a lesson, lad, sooner or later learned in sadness by all generous hearts. . . .  And now, leaving the past, with all its memories, let us return to the present, and face the uncertain future.  Also, dear Knight, I must ask you to remember, even when we are alone, that your old friend, Father Gervaise, in his brown habit, lies at the bottom of the ocean; yet that your new friend, Symon of Worcester, holds you and your interests very near his heart.”

The Bishop put out his hand.

Hugh seized and kissed it, knowing this was his farewell to Father
Gervaise.

Then he rose to his feet.

The Bishop said nothing; but an indefinable change came over him. 
Again he extended his hand.

The Knight kneeled, and kissed the Bishop’s ring.

“I thank you, my lord,” he said, “for your great trust in me.  I will not prove unworthy.”  With this he went back to his seat.

The Bishop, lifting the faggot-fork, carefully stirred and built up the logs.

“What were we saying, my dear Knight, when we strayed into a side issue?  Ah, I remember!  I was telling you of my appointment to the See of Worcester, and my belief that the Prioress failed to recognise in me, one she had known long years before.”

The Bishop put by the faggot-fork and turned from the fire.

“I found the promise of that radiant girlhood more than fulfilled.  She was changed; she shewed obvious signs of having passed through the furnace; but pure gold can stand the fire.  The strength of purpose, the noble outlook upon life, the gracious tenderness for others, had matured and developed.  Even the necessary restrictions of monastic life could not modify the grand lines—­both mental, and physical—­on which Nature had moulded her.