Bebee had always thought it quite a fine thing to have been born of
water-lilies, with the sun for her father, and when people in Brussels
had asked her of her parentage, seeing her stand in the market with a
certain look on her that was not like other children, had always gravely
answered in the purest good faith,--
"My mother was a flower."
"You are a flower, at any rate," they would say in return; and Bebee had
been always quite content.
But now she was doubtful; she was rather perplexed than sorrowful.
These good friends of hers seemed to see some new sin about her. Perhaps,
after all, thought Bebee, it might have been better to have had a human
mother who would have taken care of her now that old Antoine was dead,
instead of those beautiful, gleaming, cold water-lilies which went to
sleep on their green velvet beds, and did not certainly care when the
thorns ran into her fingers, or the pebbles got in her wooden shoes.
In some vague way, disgrace and envy--the twin Discords of the
world--touched her innocent cheek with their hot breath, and as the
evening fell, Bebee felt very lonely and a little wistful.
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