But before the Bishop was half-way across the lawn, the stem of a rose was thrust between his fingers.

As they closed over it, a gay ripple of laughter sounded behind him, fading fleetly into the distance.
The Angel-child had made her choice, and had flown with her own rose, leaving the Bishop's destiny in his clasped hands.
Without pausing or looking round, he paced onward, gazing for a while at the sparkling water; then beyond it, to the distant woods through which the Knight was riding.
Presently he turned, still with his hands behind him, passed to the garden-door, left standing wide, and entered the library.
But not until he kneeled before the shrine of Saint Joseph did he move forward his right hand, and bring into view the rose placed therein by Verity.
It was many years since the Bishop had wept.

He had not thought ever to weep again.

Yet, at sight of the rose, plucked for him by the Angel-child, something gave way within him, and he fell to weeping helplessly.
Saint Joseph, bearded and stalwart, seemed to look down with compassion upon the bowed head with its abundant silvery hair.
Even thus, it may be, had he himself wept when, after his time of hard mental torture, the Angel of the Lord appeared unto him, saying: "Fear not." After a while the Bishop left the shrine, went over to the deed chest, and laid the rose beside the white stone.
"There, my dear Hugh," he murmured; "thy stone, and my rose.

Truly they look well together.