"There is a rose of a hundred leaves, _But the wild rose is the sweetest_!""
And as she sang the words, Ulfar had a vision of a young girl, fresh and pure as a mountain bluebell, in her scrimp black frock. He saw the wind blowing it tight over her virgin form; he saw her fair, childish, troubled face as she kissed him farewell in the vicar"s meadows; and then he saw the glorious woman, n.o.bly planned, perfect on every side, that the child wife had grown to.
So, when she ceased, he pulled the fairest rose on the tree; he took from it every thorn, he put it in her breast, he kissed the rose, and he kissed her rose-like face. Then he took up the song where she dropped it; and hand in hand, keeping time to its melody, they crossed the threshold of their blessed home.
"The robin sang beneath the eaves: "There is a rose of a hundred leaves, _But the wild rose is the sweetest_!"
"The nightingale made answer clear: "_O darling rose! more fair, more dear!
O rose of a hundred leaves_!""
THE END.