g, Reverend Father," she said, and there was a wild sob in
her voice. "Oh, I entreat your blessing, on this my bridal day!"

The Bishop laid his hands upon the bright coronet of her hair, and
blessed her with the threefold Aaronic blessing; then raised her, and
bade her walk with him across the turf.

Into the arbour he led her, beneath a cascade of fragrant yellow roses.
There, upon a rustic table was spread a dainty repast--new milk, fruit
freshly gathered, white rolls, and most golden pats of butter, the dew
of the dairy yet upon them.

"Come, my daughter," said Symon of Worcester, gaily. "We of the
Church, who know the value of these early hours, let us break our fast
together."

"Is it magic, my lord?" she asked, suddenly conscious of unmistakable
hunger.

"Nay," said the Bishop, "but I was out a full hour ago. And the dairy
wench was up before me. So between us we contrived this simple repast."

So, while the bridegroom and old Deborah still slumbered and slept, the
bride and the Bishop broke their fast together in a bower of roses; and
his eyes were the eyes of a merry schoolboy out on a holiday; and the
colour came back to her cheeks and she smiled and grew light-hearted,
as always in their long friendship, when he came to her in this gay
mood.

Yet, presently, when she had eaten well, and seemed strengthened and
refreshed, the Bishop leaned back in his seat, saying with sudden
gravity:

"And now, my daughter, will you tell me how it has come to pass that
you have been led to feel it right to take this irrevocable step,
renouncing your vows, and keeping your troth to Hugh? When last we
spoke together you declared that naught would suffice but a clear sign,
vouchsafed you from our Lady herself, making it plain that your highest
duty was to Hugh, and that Heaven absolved you from your vows. Was
such a sign vouchsafed?"

"Indeed it was, my lord, in wondrous fashion, our Lady choosing as the
mouthpiece of her will, by means of a most explicit and unmistakable
revelation, one so humble and so simple, that I could but exclaim:
'Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast
revealed them unto babes.'"

"And who," asked the Bishop, his eyes upon a peach which he was peeling
with extreme care; "who, my daughter, was the babe?"

"The old lay-sister, Mary Antony."

"Ah," murmured the Bishop, "an ancient babe. Yet truly, a most worthy
babe. Almost, I should be inclined to say, a wise