And there he planted the roots, and as he turned to go away he said, "The blessing of our Maker rest on thee! And give joy of thy loveliness, and pleasure of thy perfume, to others when I am gone.

And let him who enjoys remember the soul of him who planted thee." And he covered his face with his hands, and went back to the monastery.

And he did not enter the new plant upon his roll, for he had no such lily in his garden.
* * * * * Brother Benedict's soul had long departed, when in times of turbulence and change the monastery was destroyed, and between fire and plunder and reckless destruction everything perished, and even the garden was laid waste.

But no one touched the Lilies of the Valley in the copse below, for they were so common that they were looked upon as weeds.
And though nothing remained of the brotherhood but old tales, these lingered, and were handed on; and when the children played with the lilies and bickered over them, crying, "My ladder has twelve white angels and yours has only eight," they would often call them Brother Benedict's flowers, adding, "but the real right name of them is Ladders to Heaven." And after a time a new race came into the Green Valley and filled it; and the stream which never failed turned many wheels, and trades were brisk, and they were what are called black trades.

And men made money soon, and spent it soon, and died soon; and in the time between each lived for himself, and had little reverence for those who were gone, and less concern for those who should come after.