gate. "It is all you can do to get your bread. You have no one to stand
between you and hunger. How will it be with you when the slug gets your
roses, and the snail your carnations, and your hens die of damp, and your
lace is all wove awry, because your head runs on reading and folly, and
you are spoilt for all simple pleasures and for all honest work?"

She smiled, still looking up at the moon, with the dropping ivy touching
her hair.

"You are cross, dear Jeannot. Good night."

A moment afterwards the little rickety door was shut, and the rusty bolt
drawn within it; Jeannot stood in the cool summer night all alone, and
knew how stupid he had been in his wrath.

He leaned on the gate a minute; then crossed the garden as softly as his
wooden shoes would let him. He tapped gently on the shutter of the
lattice.

"Bébée--Bébée--just listen. I spoke roughly, dear--I know I have no
right. I am sorry. Will you be friends with me again?--do be friends
again."

She opened the shutter a little way, so that he could see her
pretty mouth speaking, "we are friends--we will always be friends,
of course--only you do not know. Good night."

He went away with a heavy heart and a long-drawn step. He would have
preferred that she should have been angry with him.