At Groenendael, in the heart of the forest midnight was striking as she entered the village.  Every one was asleep.  The lights were all out The old ruined priory frowned dark under the clouds.

She shivered a little again, and began to feel chill and tired, yet did not dare to knock at any one of the closed house doors—­she had no money.

So she walked on her first ten unknown miles, meeting a few people only, and being altogether unmolested—­a small gray figure, trotting in two little wooden shoes.

They thought her a peasant going to a fair or a lace mill, and no one did her more harm than to wish her good night in rough Flemish.

When the dawn began to whiten above the plains of the east, she saw an empty cow-shed filled with hay; she was a little tired, and lay down and rested an hour or two, as a young lamb might have lain on the dried clover, for she knew that she must keep her strength and husband her power, or never reach across the dreary length of the foreign land to Paris.

But by full sunrise she was on her way again, bathing her face in a brook and buying a sou’s worth of bread and flet-milk at the first cottage that she passed in bright, leaf-bowered Hoey-laert.

The forest was still all around her, with its exquisite life of bough and blossom, and murmur of insect and of bird.  She told her beads, praying as she went, and was almost happy.

God would not let him die.  Oh, no, not till she had kissed him once more, and could die with him.

The hares ran across the path, and the blue butterflies flew above-head.  There was purple gloom of pine wood, and sparkling verdure of aspen and elm.  There were distant church carillons ringing, and straight golden shafts of sunshine streaming.

She was quite sure God would not let him die.

She hoped that he might be very poor.  At times he had talked as if he were, and then she might be of so much use.  She knew how to deal with fever and suffering.  She had sat up many a night with the children of the village.  The gray sisters had taught her many of their ways of battling with disease; and she could make fresh cool drinks, and she could brew beautiful remedies from simple herbs.  There was so much that she might do; her fancy played with it almost happily.  And then, only to touch his hand, only to hear his voice; her heart rose at the thought, as a lark to its morning song.

At Rixensart, buried in its greenery, as she went through it in morning light, some peasants greeted her cheerily, and called to her to rest in a house porch, and gave her honey and bread.  She could not eat much; her tongue was parched and her throat was dry, but the kindness was precious to her, and she went on her road the stronger for it.

“It is a long way to walk to Paris,” said the woman, with some curious wonder.  Bebee smiled, though her eyes grew wet.

“She has the look of the little Gesu,” said the Rixensart people; and they watched her away with a vague timid pity.