Guido, she was very sorrowful
and lonely, poor little, bright Bebee, who had never hardly known a worse
woe than to run the thorns of the roses into her fingers, or to cry
because a thrush was found starved to death in the snow.
Bebee went home, and sat down in a corner and thought.
The hut was her own, and her own the little green triangle just then
crowded with its Mayday blossom in all the colors of the rainbow. She was
to live in it, and never let the flowers die, so he had said; good, rough
old ugly Antoine Maees, who had been to her as father, mother, country,
king, and law.
The sun was shining.
Through the little square of the lattice she could see the great tulips
opening in the grass and a bough of the apple-tree swaying in the wind. A
chaffinch clung to the bough, and swung to and fro singing. The door
stood open, with the broad, bright day beaming through; and Bebee's
little world came streaming in with it,--the world which dwelt in the
half-dozen cottages that fringed this green lane of hers like beavers'
nests pushed out under the leaves on to the water's edge.
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