to live.

Jeannot looked up at her, then went on his slow sad way through the wet
lavender-shrubs and the opening buds of the lilies.

"You will only think of that stranger, Bébée, never of any of us--never
again," he said; and wearily opened the little gate and went through it,
and down the daybreak stillness of the lane. It was a foolish thing to
say; but when were lovers ever wise?

Bébée did not heed; she did not understand herself or him; she only knew
that she was happy; when one knows that, one does not want to seek much
further.

She sat on the thatch and took her bread and milk in the gray clear air,
with the swallows circling above her head, and one or two of them even
resting a second on the edge of the bowl to peck at the food from the big
wooden spoon; they had known her all the sixteen summers of her life, and
were her playfellows, only they would never tell her anything of what
they saw in winter over the seas. That was her only quarrel with them.
Swallows do not tell their secrets They have the weird of Procne on
them all.

The sun came and touched the lichens of the roof into gold.

Bébée smiled at it gayly as it rose above the tops of the trees, and
shone on all the little villages scattered over the plains.

"Ah, dear Sun!" she cried to it. "I am going to be wise. I am going into
great Rubes' country. I am going to hear of the Past and the Future. I am