For she was alone, though she had so many friends.  Quite alone sometimes; for God had been cruel to her, and had made her a lark without song.

When the sun faded and the beautiful casements lost all glow and meaning, Bebee rose with a startled look—­had she been dreaming?—­was it night?—­would the children be sorry, and go supperless to bed?

“Have you a rosebud left to sell to me?” a man’s voice said not far off; it was low and sweet, as became the Sacrament Chapel.

Bebee looked up; she did not quite know what she saw:  only dark eyes smiling into hers.

By the instinct of habit she sought in her basket and found three moss-roses.  She held them out to him.

“I do not sell flowers here, but I will give them to you,” she said, in her pretty grave childish fashion.

“I often want flowers,” said the stranger, as he took the buds.  “Where do you sell yours?—­in the market?”

“In the Grande Place.”

“Will you tell me your name, pretty one?”

“I am Bebee.”

There were people coming into the church.  The bells were booming abovehead for vespers.  There was a shuffle of chairs and a stir of feet.  Boys in white went to and fro, lighting the candles.  Great clouds of shadow drifted up into the roof and hid the angels.

She nodded her little head to him.

“Good night; I cannot stay.  I have a cake at home to-night, and the children are waiting.”

“Ah! that is important, no doubt, indeed.  Will you buy some more cakes for the children from me?”

He slid a gold piece in her hand.  She looked at it in amaze.  In the green lanes by Laeken no one ever saw gold.  Then she gave it him back.

“I will not take money in church, nor anywhere, except what the flowers are worth.  Good night.”

He followed her, and held back the heavy oak door for her, and went out into the air with her.

It was dark already, but in the square there was still the cool bright primrose-colored evening light.

Bebee’s wooden shoes went pattering down the sloping and uneven stones.  Her little gray figure ran quickly through the deep shade cast from the towers and walls.  Her dreams had drifted away.  She was thinking of the children and the cake.

“You are in such a hurry because of the cake?” said her new customer, as he followed her.

Bebee looked back at him with a smile in her blue eyes.

“Yes, they will be waiting, you know, and there are cherries too.”

“It is a grand day with you, then?”

“It is my fete day:  I am sixteen.”

She was proud of this.  She told it to the very dogs in the street.

“Ah, you feel old, I dare say?”

“Oh, quite old!  They cannot call me a child any more.”

“Of course not, it would be ridiculous.  Are those presents in your basket?”

“Yes, every one of them.”  She paused a moment to lift the dead vine-leaves, and show him the beautiful shining red shoes.  “Look! old Gringoire gave me these.  I shall wear them at mass next Sunday.  I never had a pair of shoes in my life.”