“I want to paint you as Gretchen, only it will be a shame.” he said.

“Who is Gretchen?”

“You shall read of her by-and-by.  And you live here all by yourself?”

“Since Antoine died—­yes.”

“And are never dull?”

“I have no time, and I do not think I would be if I had time—­there is so much to think of, and one never can understand.”

“But you must be very brave and laborious to do all your work yourself.  Is it possible a child like you can spin, and wash, and bake, and garden, and do everything?”

“Oh, many do more than I. Babette’s eldest daughter is only twelve, and she does much more, because she has all the children to look after; and they are very, very poor; they often have nothing but a stew of nettles and perhaps a few snails, days together.”

“That is lean, bare, ugly, gruesome poverty; there is plenty of that everywhere.  But you, Bebee—­you are an idyll.”

Bebee looked across the hut and smiled, and broke her thread.  She did not know what he meant, but if she were anything that pleased him, it was well.

“Who were those beautiful women?” she said suddenly, the color mounting into her cheeks.

“What women, my dear?”

“Those I saw at the window with you, the other night—­they had jewels.”

“Oh!—­women, tiresome enough.  If I had seen you, I would have dropped you some fruit.  Poor little Bebee!  Did you go by, and I never knew?”

“You were laughing—­”

“Was I?”

“Yes, and they were beautiful.”

“In their own eyes; not in mine.”

“No?”

She stopped her spinning and gazed at him with wistful, wondering eyes.  Could it be that they were not beautiful to him? those deep red, glowing, sun-basked dahlia flowers?

“Do you know,” she said very softly, with a flush of penitence that came and went, “when I saw them, I hated them; I confessed it to Father Francis next day.  You seemed so content with, them, and they looked so gay and glad there—­and then the jewels!  Somehow, I seemed to myself such a little thing, and so ugly and mean.  And yet, do you know—­”

“And yet—­well?”

“They did not look to me good—­those women,” said Bebee, thoughtfully, looking across at him in deprecation of his possible anger.  “They were great people, I suppose, and they appeared very happy; but though I seemed nothing to myself after them, still I think I would not change.”

“You are wise without books, Bebee.”

“Oh, no, I am not wise at all.  I only feel.  And give me books; oh, pray, give me books!  You do not know; I will learn so fast; and I will not neglect anything, that I promise.  The neighbors and Jeannot say that I shall let the flowers die, and the hut get dirty, and never spin or prick Annemie’s patterns; but that is untrue.  I will do all, just as I have done, and more too, if only you will give me things to read, for I do think when one is happy, one ought to work more—­not less.”