“But will these books make you happy?  If you ask me the truth, I must tell you—­no.  You are happy as you are, because you know nothing else than your own little life; for ignorance is happiness, Bebee, let sages, ancient and modern, say what they will.  But when you know a little, you will want to know more:  and when you know much, you will want to see much also, and then—­and then—­the thing will grow—­you will be no longer content.  That is, you will be unhappy.”

Bebee watched him with wistful eyes.

“Perhaps that is true.  No doubt it is true, if you say it.  But you know all the world seems full of voices that I hear, but that I cannot understand; it is with me as I should think it is with people who go to foreign countries and do not know the tongue that is spoken when they land; and it makes me unhappy, because I cannot comprehend, and so the books will not make me more so, but less.  And as for being content—­when I thought you were gone away out of the city, last night, I thought I would never be able to pray any more, because I hated myself, and I almost hated the angels, and I told Mary that she was cruel, and she turned her face from me—­as it seemed, forever.”

She spoke quite quietly and simply, spinning as she spoke, and looking across at him with earnest eyes, that begged him to believe her.  She was saying the pure truth, but she did not know the force or the meaning of that truth.

He listened with a smile; it was not new to him; he knew her heart much better than she knew it herself, but there was an unconsciousness, and yet a strength, in the words that touched him though.

He threw the leaves away, irritably, and told her to leave off her spinning.

“Some day I shall paint you with that wheel as I painted the Broodhuis.  Will you let me, Bebee?”

“Yes.”

She answered him as she would have answered if he had told her to go on pilgrimage from one end of the Low Countries to the other.

“What were you going to do to-day?”

“I am going into the market with the flowers; I go every day.”

“How much will you make?”

“Two or three francs, if I am lucky.”

“And do you never have a holiday?”

“Oh, yes; but not often, you know, because it is on the fete days that the people want the most flowers.”

“But in the winter?”

“Then I work at the lace.”

“Do you never go into the woods?”

“I have been once or twice; but it loses a whole day.”

“You are afraid of not earning?”

“Yes.  Because I am afraid of owing people anything.”

“Well, give up this one day, and we will make holiday.  The people are out; they will not know.  Come into the forest, and we will dine at a cafe in the woods; and we will be as poetic as you like, and I will tell you a tale of one called Rosalind, who pranked herself in boy’s attire, all for love, in the Ardennes country yonder.  Come, it is the very day for the forest; it will make me a lad again at Meudon, when the lilacs were in bloom.  Poor Paris!  Come.”