He smiled.

"The free pass to Rubes' country lies in books, pretty one. Shall I give
you some?--nay, lend them, I mean, since giving you are too wilful to
hear of without offence. You can read, you said?"

Bébée's eyes glowed as they lifted themselves to his.

"I can read--not very fast, but that would come with doing it more and
more, I think, just as spinning does; one knots the thread and breaks it
a million times before one learns to spin as fine as cobwebs. I have read
the stories of St. Anne, and of St. Catherine, and of St. Luven fifty
times, but they are all the books that Father Francis has; and no one
else has any among us."

"Very well. You shall have books of mine. Easy ones first, and then those
that are more serious. But what time will you have? You do so much; you
are like a little golden bee."

Bébée laughed happily.

"Oh! give me the books and I will find the time. It is light so early
now. That gives one so many hours. In winter one has so few one must lie
in bed, because to buy a candle you know one cannot afford except, of
course, a taper now and then, as one's duty is, for our Lady or for the
dead. And will you really, really, lend me books?"

"Really, I will. Yes. I will bring you one to the Grande Place
to-morrow, or meet you on your road there with it. Do you know what