on the grass blade, and dropped it under the table. "John, will you pour tea for us?"
We finished the muffins and cake, all talking with our mouths full, in the most sociable and sensible way; and, after the honey pot was almost empty, we made the bee a prisoner in it, so that, like that Duke of Clarence, who was drowned in a butt of Malmsey, he got enough of what he liked at last.
I think it was Angel who put the question that was to lead to so much that was exciting and mysterious.
He said, leaning against the Bishop's shoulder: "What do you think is the most beautiful thing in the world, Bishop?"
Our friend had The Seraph between his knees, and was gazing at the back of his head. "Well," he replied, "since you ask me seriously, I should say this little curl on The Seraph's nape."
The Seraph felt for it.
"I yike it," he said, "but I yike my wart better."
"Good gracious," exclaimed the Bishop. "Don't tell me you've a wart!"
"Yes, a weal one," chuckled The Seraph. "It's little, but it's gwowing. I fink some day it'll be as big as the one on Mrs. Handsomebody's chin. It can wiggle."
"You don't say so!" said the Bishop, rather
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