Bébée's eyes grew very soft, but they looked up frankly.

"I am not sure--I think he is a painter--a great painter prince, I
mean--as Rubes was in Antwerpen; he wanted roses the night before last in
the cathedral."

"But he was walking with you?"

"He was in the lane as I came home last night--yes."

"What does he give you for your roses?"

"Oh! he pays me well. How is your mother this day, Jeannot?"

"You do not like to talk of him?"

"Why should you want to talk of him? He is nothing to you."

"Did you really see him only two days ago, Bébée?"

"Oh, Jeannot! did I ever tell a falsehood? You would not say that to one
of your little sisters."

The forester swayed the gate to and fro drearily under his folded arms.

Bébée, not regarding him, cut her flowers, and filled her baskets, and
did her other work, and set a ladder against the hut and climbed on its
low roof to seek for eggs, the hens having green tastes sometimes for the
rushes and lichens of its thatch. She found two eggs, which she promised