She would weep a little to-morrow, and she would not kneel any more at the shrine in the garden wall; and then—­and then—­she would stay here and marry the good boor Jeannot, just the same after a while; or drift away after him to Paris, and leave her two little wooden shoes, and her visions of Christ in the fields at evening, behind her forevermore, and do as all the others did, and take not only silken stockings but the Cinderella slipper that is called Gold, which brings all other good things in its train;—­what matter!

He had meant this from the first, because she was so pretty, and those little wooden sabots ran so lithely over the stones; though he was not in love with her, but only idly stretched his hand for her as a child by instinct stretches to a fruit that hangs in the sun a little rosier and a little nearer than the rest.

What matter—­he said to himself—­she loved him, poor little soul, though she did not know it; and there would always be Jeannot glad enough of a handful of bright French gold.

He pushed the gate gently against her; her hands fastened the rosebud and drew open the latch themselves.

“Will you come in a little?” she said, with the happy light in her face.  “You must not stay long, because the flowers must be watered, and then there are Annemie’s patterns—­they must be done or she will have no money and so no food—­but if you would come in for a little?  And see, if you wait a minute I will show you the roses that I shall cut to-morrow the first thing, and take down to St. Guido to Our Lady’s altar in thank-offering for to-day.  I should like you to choose them—­you yourself—­and if you would just touch them I should feel as if you gave them to her too.  Will you?”

She spoke with the pretty outspoken frankness of her habitual speech, just tempered and broken with the happy, timid hesitation, the curious sense at once of closer nearness and of greater distance, that had come on her since he had kissed her among the bright beanflowers.

He turned from her quickly.

“No, dear, no.  Gather your roses alone, Bebee; if I touch them their leaves will fall.”

Then, with a hurriedly backward glance down the dusky lane to see that none were looking, he bent his head and kissed her again quickly and with a sort of shame, and swung the gate behind him and went away through the boughs and the shadows.

CHAPTER XIX.

Bebee looked after him wistfully till his figure was lost in the gloom.

The village was very quiet; a dog barking afar off and a cow lowing in the meadow were the only living things that made their presence heard; the pilgrims had not returned.

She leaned on the gate a few minutes in that indistinct, dreamy happiness which is the prerogative of innocent love.

“How wonderful it is that he should give a thought to me!” she said again and again to herself.  It was as if a king had stooped for a little knot of daisied grass to set it in his crown where the great diamonds should be.