Now—­when she woke to the full sense of her wonderful sixteen years—­Bebee, standing barefoot on the mud floor, was as pretty a sight as was to be seen betwixt Scheldt and Rhine.

The sun had only left a soft warmth like an apricot’s on her white skin.  Her limbs, though strong as a mountain pony’s, were slender and well shaped.  Her hair curled in shiny crumpled masses, and tumbled about her shoulders.  Her pretty round plump little breast was white as the lilies in the grass without, and in this blooming time of her little life, Bebee, in her way, was beautiful as a peach-bloom is beautiful, and her innocent, courageous, happy eyes had dreams in them underneath their laughter, dreams that went farther than the green woods of Laeken, farther even than the white clouds of summer.

She could not move among them idly as poets and girls love to do; she had to be active amidst them, else drought and rain, and worm and snail, and blight and frost, would have made havoc of their fairest hopes.

The loveliest love is that which dreams high above all storms, unsoiled by all burdens; but perhaps the strongest love is that which, whilst it adores, drags its feet through mire, and burns its brow in heat, for the thing beloved.

So Bebee dreamed in her garden; but all the time for sake of it hoed and dug, and hurt her hands, and tired her limbs, and bowed her shoulders under the great metal pails from the well.

This wondrous morning, with the bright burden of her sixteen years upon her, she dressed herself quickly and fed her fowls, and, happy as a bird, went to sit on her little wooden stool in the doorway.

There had been fresh rain in the night:  the garden was radiant; the smell of the wet earth was sweeter than all perfumes that are burned in palaces.

The dripping rosebuds nodded against her hair as she went out; the starling called to her, “Bebee, Bebee—­bonjour, bonjour.”  These were all the words it knew.  It said the same words a thousand times a week.  But to Bebee it seemed that the starling most certainly knew that she was sixteen years old that day.

Breaking her bread into the milk, she sat in the dawn and thought, without knowing that she thought it, “How good it is to live when one is young!”

Old people say the same thing often, but they sigh when they say it.  Bebee smiled.

Mere Krebs opened her door in the next cottage, and nodded over the wall.

“What a fine thing to be sixteen!—­a merry year, Bebee.”

Marthe, the carpenter’s wife, came out from her gate, broom in hand.

“The Holy Saints keep you, Bebee; why, you are quite a woman now!”

The little children of Varnhart, the charcoal-burner, who were as poor as any mouse in the old churches, rushed out of their little home up the lane, bringing with them a cake stuck full of sugar and seeds, and tied round with a blue ribbon, that their mother had made that very week, all in her honor.