He was weary of tales of bakers and piemen.

He was not at all curious as to what had been beneath the French Cardinal's crimson sash.

He wanted the tasty morsels which he knew lay concealed in Sister Mary Antony's leathern wallet.

So he stayed on the bough and sang.
The old face, peering up from between the pillars, softened into tenderness at the robin's song.
"I cannot let thy little grace return unto thee void," she said, and fumbled at the fastenings of her wallet.
A flick of wings, a flash of red.

The robin had dropped from the bough, and perched beside her.
She doled out crumbs, and fragments of cheese, pushing them toward him along the parapet; leaving her fingers near, to see how close he would adventure to her hand.
She watched him peck a morsel of cheese into five tiny pieces, then fly, with full beak, on eager wing, to the hidden nest, from which five gaping mouths shrieked a shrill and hungry welcome.