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.
The small bare feet made no sound on the turf.