Bebee, whose religion was the sweetest, vaguest mingling of Pagan and
Christian myths, and whose faith in fairies and in saints was exactly
equal in strength and in ignorance,--Bebee filled the delf pot anew
carefully, then knelt down on the turf in that little green corner, and
prayed in devout hopeful childish good faith to the awful unknown Powers
who were to her only as gentle guides and kindly playmates.
Was she too familiar with the Holy Mother?
She was almost fearful that she was; but then the Holy Mother loved
flowers so well, Bebee would not feel aloof from her, nor be afraid.
"When one cuts the best blossoms for her, and tries to be good, and never
tells a lie," thought Bebee, "I am quite sure, as she loves the lilies,
that she will never altogether forget me."
So she said to the Mother of Christ fearlessly, and nothing doubting; and
then rose for her daily work of cutting the flowers for the market in
Brussels.
By the time her baskets were full, her fowls fed, her goat foddered, her
starling's cage cleaned, her hut door locked, and her wooden shoes
clattering on the sunny road into the city, Bebee was almost content
again, though ever and again, as she trod the familiar ways, the tears
dimmed her eyes as she remembered that old Antoine would never again
hobble over the stones beside her.
Pages:
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31