She wondered whether this uncouth plant would bear anything but music.

So she spoke to it.
"'Thorn,' she said, 'why have you no flowers ?' "'I am the Thorn of the World,' it answered, 'and I can bear no flowers until the hand that planted me has tended me, and pruned me, and shaped me to be its own.

If you had planted me like the rest, it would have been easy for you.

But you planted me unwillingly, down below you by the moat, and I have had far to climb.' "'But my hands are so delicate,' said the maiden.

'You will hurt me, I am sure.' "'Yours is the only hand in the world that I will not hurt,' said the voice, so tenderly and softly and sadly that the gentle fingers went out to touch the plant and see if it were real.