Bebee doing her work, singing, thinking how good God was, and dreaming over a thousand fancies of the wonderful stories he had told her, and of the exquisite delight that would lie for her in watching for him all through the shining hours, Bebee felt her little heart leap like a squirrel as the voice that was the music of heaven to her called through the stillness,—­“Good day, pretty one! you are as early as the lark, Bebee.  I go to Mayence, so I thought I would look at you one moment as I pass.”

Bebee ran down through the wet grass in a tumult of joy.  She had never seen him so early in the day—­never so early as this, when nobody was up and stirring except birds and beasts and peasant folk.

She did not know how pretty she looked herself; like a rain-washed wild rose; her feet gleaming with dew, her cheeks warm with health and joy; her sunny clustering hair free from the white cap and tumbling a little about her throat, because she had been stooping over the carnations.

Flamen loosed the wicket latch, and thought there might be better ways of spending the day than in the gray shadows of old Mechlin.

“Will you give me a draught of water?” he asked her as he crossed the garden.

“I will give you breakfast,” said Bebee, happy as a bird.  She felt no shame for the smallness of her home; no confusion at the poverty of her little place; such embarrassments are born of self-consciousness, and Bebee had no more self-consciousness than her own sweet, gray lavender-bush blowing against the door.

The lavender-bush has no splendor like the roses, has no colors like the hollyhocks; it is a simple, plain, gray thing that the bees love and that the cottagers cherish, and that keeps the moth from the homespun linen, and that goes with the dead to their graves.

It has many virtues and infinite sweetness, but it does not know it or think of it; and if the village girls ever tell it so, it fancies they only praise it out of kindness as they put its slender fragrant spears away in their warm bosoms.  Bebee was like her lavender, and now that this beautiful Purple Emperor butterfly came from the golden sunbeams to find pleasure for a second in her freshness, she was only very grateful, as the lavender-bush was to the village girls.

“I will give you your breakfast,” said Bebee, flushing rosily with pleasure, and putting away the ivy coils that he might enter.

“I have very little, you know,” she added, wistfully.  “Only goat’s milk and bread; but if that will do—­and there is some honey—­and if you would eat a salad, I would cut one fresh.”

He did enter, and glanced round him with a curious pity and wonder both in one.

It was such a little, small, square place; and its floor was of beaten clay; and its unceiled roof he could have touched; and its absolute poverty was so plain,—­and yet the child looked so happy in it, and was so like a flower, and was so dainty and fresh, and even so full of grace.