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He had been Boy-Bishop twice, had become a favourite of the Warden's, learnt Latin, smelt at Greek, scribbled verses. Then, one Corpus Christi, he got his chance. She had been a widow, it seems, when she took part in the Triumphs. Bellaroba was much interested. "Was the lady kind to you, Angioletto?" "Oh, very kind." "But you had to go, you say?" "Yes. It was judged better."
"Although the bishop usually does baptize the catechumens," he said, "it is not necessary that it should be a bishop, not even necessary that it should be a priest." The boy-bishop looked grave, his companions frightened, the Patriarch thoughtful. "What is your name?" he asked suddenly, laying his hand on the ruddy locks. "Athanasius," answered the boy. "What would you like to be?" he asked.
And she would tremble awestruck as if she were the mother of a god, this poor sick work-woman whose puling child lay beside her drooping in the poisoned air of a back-shop: But for the nonce, on mother's breast, My sweet boy-bishop, take thy rest. One evening, as her husband handed her a cooling drink, she said to him in a tone of regret: "Why did you disturb me?
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