“Do you mean it?”

The color was bright in her face, her heart was dancing, her little feet felt themselves already on the fresh green turf.

She had no thought that there could be any harm in it.  She would have gone with Jeannot or old Bac.

“Of course I mean it.  Come.  I was going to Mayence to see the Magi and Van Dyck’s Christ.  We will go to Soignies instead, and study green leaves.  I will paint your face by sunlight.  It is the best way to paint you.  You belong to the open air.  So should Gretchen; or how else should she have the blue sky in her eyes?”

“But I have only wooden shoes!”

Her face was scarlet as she glanced at her feet; he who had wanted to give her the silk stockings—­how would he like to be seen walking abroad with those two clumsy, clattering, work-a-day, little sabots?

“Never mind.  My dear, in my time I have had enough of satin shoes and of silver gilt heels; they click-clack as loud as yours, and cost much more to those who walk with them, not to mention that they will seldom deign to walk at all.  Your wooden shoes are picturesque.  Paganini made a violin out of a wooden shoe.  Who knows what music may lurk in yours, only you have never heard it.  Perhaps I have.  It was Bac who gave you the red shoes that was the barbarian, not I. Come.”

“You really mean it?”

“Come.”

“But they will miss me at market.”

“They will think you are gone on the pilgrimage:  you need never tell them you have not.”

“But if they ask me?”

“Does it never happen that you say any other thing than the truth?”

“Any other thing than the truth!  Of course not.  People take for granted that one tells truth; it would be very base to cheat them.  Do you really mean that I may come?—­in the forest!—­and you will tell me stories like those you give me to read?”

“I will tell you a better story.  Lock your hut, Bebee, and come.”

“And to think you are not ashamed!”

“Ashamed?”

“Yes, because of my wooden shoes.”

Was it possible?  Bebee thought, as she ran out into the garden and locked the door behind her, and pushed the key under the waterbutt as usual, being quite content with that prudent precaution against robbers which had served Antoine all his days.  Was it possible, this wonderful joy?—­her cheeks were like her roses, her eyes had a brilliance like the sun; the natural grace and mirth of the child blossomed in a thousand ways and gestures.

As she went by the shrine in the wall, she bent her knee a moment and made the sign of the cross; then she gathered a little moss-rose that nodded close under the border of the palisade, and turned and gave it to him.

“Look, she sends you this.  She is not angry, you see, and it is much more pleasure when she is pleased—­do you not know?”

He shrank a little as her fingers touched him.