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.