“Well, then, you will wear the stockings, will you not?  Only, believe me, your feet are far prettier without them.”

Bebee laughed happily, and took another peep in the cosy rose-satin nest.  But her little face had a certain perplexity.  Suddenly she turned on him.

“Did not you put them there?”

“I?—­never!”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Quite; but why ask?”

“Because,” said Bebee, shutting the box resolutely and pushing it a little away,—­“because I would not take it if you did.  You are a stranger, and a present is a debt, so Antoine always said.”

“Why take a present then from the Varnhart children, or your old friend who gave you the clasps?”

“Ah, that is very different.  When people are very, very poor, equally poor, the one with the other, little presents that they save for and make with such a difficulty are just things that are a pleasure; sacrifices; like your sitting up with a sick person at night, and then she sits up with you another year when you want it.  Do you not know?”

“I know you talk very prettily.  But why should you not take any one else’s present, though he may not be poor?”

“Because I could not return it.”

“Could you not?”

The smile in his eyes dazzled her a little; it was so strange, and yet had so much light in it; but she did not understand him one whit.

“No; how could I?” she said earnestly.  “If I were to save for two years, I could not get francs enough to buy anything worth giving back; and I should be so unhappy, thinking of the debt of it always.  Do tell me if you put those stockings there?”

“No”; he looked at her, and the trivial lie faltered and died away; the eyes, clear as crystal, questioned him so innocently.  “Well, if I did?” he said, frankly; “you wished for them; what harm was there?  Will you be so cruel as to refuse them from me?”

The tears sprang into Bebee’s eyes.  She was sorry to lose the beautiful box, but more sorry he had lied to her.

“It was very kind and good,” she said, regretfully.  “But I cannot think why you should have done it, as you had never known me at all.  And, indeed, I could not take them, because Antoine would not let me if he were alive; and if I gave you a flower every day all the year round I should not pay you the worth of them, it would be quite impossible; and why should you tell me falsehoods about such a thing?  A falsehood is never a thing for a man.”

She shut the box and pushed it towards him, and turned to the selling of her bouquets.  Her voice shook a little as she tied up a bunch of mignonette and told the price of it.

Those beautiful stockings! why had she ever seen them, and why had he told her a lie?

It made her heart heavy.  For the first time in her brief life the Broodhuis seemed to frown between her and the sun.

Undisturbed, he painted on and did not look at her.