“Dear and holy Mother of Jesus, I do thank you that you made me a little good to look at,” she said, softly.  “Keep me as you keep the flowers, and let my face be always fair, because it is a pleasure to be a pleasure.  Ah, dear Mother, I say it so badly, and it sounds so vain, I know.  But I do not think you will be angry, will you?  And I am going to try to be wise.”

Then she murmured an ave or two, to be in form as it were, and then rose and ran along the lanes with her baskets, and brushed the dew lightly over her bare feet, and sang a little Flemish song for very joyousness, as the birds sing in the apple bough.

She got the money for Annemie and took it to her with fresh patterns to prick, and the new-laid eggs.

“I wonder what he meant by a dog’s heart?” she thought to herself, as she left the old woman sitting by the hole in the roof pricking out the parchment in all faith that she earned her money, and looking every now and then through the forests of masts for the brig with the hank of flax flying,—­the brig that had foundered fifty long years before in the northern seas, and in the days of her youth.

“What is the dog’s heart?” thought Bebee; she had seen a dog she knew—­a dog which all his life long had dragged heavy loads under brutal stripes along the streets of Brussels—­stretch himself on the grave of his taskmaster and refuse to eat, and persist in lying there until he died, though he had no memory except of stripes, and no tie to the dead except pain and sorrow.  Was it a heart like this that he meant?

“Was her sailor, indeed, so good to her?” she asked an old gossip of Annemie’s, as she went down the stairs.

The old soul stopped to think with difficulty of such a far-off time, and resting her brass flagon of milk on the steep step.

“Eh, no; not that I ever saw,” she answered at length.  “He was fond of her—­very fond; but he was a wilful one, and he beat her sometimes when he got tired of being on land.  But women must not mind that, you know, my dear, if only a man’s heart is right.  Things fret them, and then they belabor what they love best; it is a way they have.”

“But she speaks of him as of an angel nearly!” said Bebee, bewildered.

The old woman took up her flagon, with a smile flitting across her wintry face.

“Ay, dear; when the frost kills your brave rose-bush, root and bud, do you think of the thorns that pricked you, or only of the fair, sweet-smelling things that flowered all your summer?”

Bebee went away thoughtfully out of the old crazy water-washed house by the quay; life seemed growing very strange and intricate and knotted about her, like the threads of lace that a bad fairy has entangled in the night.

CHAPTER X.