at his feet on the bricks of his little bare study, where all the books
he ever spelt out were treatises on the art of bee-keeping.

"My dear, you never were covetous at all, nor did you ever seem to care
for the things of the world. I wish Jehan had not given you those silver
buckles; I think they have set your little soul on vanities."

"It is not the buckles; I am not covetous," said Bébée; and then her face
grew warm. She did not know why. and she did not hear the rest of Father
Francis's admonitions.




CHAPTER XIII.


But the next noon-time brought him to the market stall, and the next
also, and so the summer days slipped away, and Bébée was quite happy if
she saw him in the morning time, to give him a fresh rose, or at evening
by the gates, or under the beech-trees, when he brought her a new book,
and sauntered awhile up the green lane beside her.

An innocent, unconscious love like Bébée's wants so little food to make
it all content. Such mere trifles are beautiful and sweet to it. Such
slender stray gleams of light suffice to make a broad, bright golden noon
of perfect joy around it.

All the delirium, and fever, and desire, and despair, that are in maturer
passion, are far away from it: far as is the flash of the meteor across