“And what is that?”

“To know something; not to be so ignorant.  Just look—­I can read a Little, it is true:  my Hours, and the letters, and when Krebs brings in a newspaper I can read a little of it, not much.  I know French well, because Antoine was French himself, and never did talk Flemish to me; and they being Netherlanders, cannot, of course, read the newspapers at all, and so think it very wonderful indeed in me.  But what I want is to know things, to know all about what was before ever I was living.  St. Gudule now—­they say it was built hundreds of years before; and Rubes again—­they say he was a painter king in Antwerpen before the oldest, oldest woman like Annemie ever began to count time.  I am sure books tell you all those things, because I see the students coming and going with them; and when I saw once the millions of books in the Rue du Musee, I asked the keeper what use they were for, and he said, ’To make men wise, my dear.’  But Gringoire Bac, the cobbler, who was with me,—­it was a fete day,—­Bac, he said, ’Do not you believe that, Bebee; they only muddle folks’ brains; for one book tells them one thing, and another book another, and so on, till they are dazed with all the contrary lying; and if you see a bookish man, be sure you see a very poor creature who could not hoe a patch, or kill a pig, or stitch an upper-leather, were it ever so.’  But I do not believe that Bac said right.  Did he?”

“I am not sure.  On the whole, I think it is the truest remark on literature I have ever heard, and one that shows great judgment in Bac.  Well?”

“Well, sometimes, you know,” said Bebee, not understanding his answer, but pursuing her thoughts confidentially,—­“sometimes I talk like this to the neighbors, and they laugh at me.  Because Mere Krebs says that when one knows how to spin and sweep and make bread and say one’s prayers and milk a goat or a cow, it is all a woman wants to know this side of heaven.  But for me, I cannot help it, when I look at those windows in the cathedral, or at those beautiful twisted little spires that are all over our Hotel de Ville, I want to know who the men were that made them,—­what they did and thought,—­how they looked and spoke,—­how they learned to shape stone into leaves and grasses like that,—­how they could imagine all those angel faces on the glass.  When I go alone in the quite early morning or at night when it is still—­sometimes in winter I have to stay till it is dark over the lace—­I hear their feet come after me, and they whisper to me close, ’Look what beautiful things we have done, Bebee, and you all forget us quite.  We did what never will die, but our names are as dead as the stones.’  And then I am so sorry for them and ashamed.  And I want to know more.  Can you tell me?”

He looked at her earnestly; her eyes were shining, her cheeks were warm, her little mouth was tremulous with eagerness.

“Did any one ever speak to you in that way?” he asked her.