Meanwhile, ever and again, sitting on the edge of her stall, with
his colors and brushes tossed out on the board, he talked to her, and,
with the soft imperceptible skill of long practice in those arts, he drew
out the details of her little simple life.
There were not always people to buy, and whilst she rested and sheltered
the flowers from the sun, she answered him willingly, and in one of her
longer rests showed him the wonderful stockings.
"Do you think it _could_ be the fairies?" she asked him a little
doubtfully.
It was easy to make her believe any fantastical nonsense; but her fairies
were ethereal divinities. She could scarcely believe that they had laid
that box on her chair.
"Impossible to doubt it!" he replied, unhesitatingly. "Given a belief in
fairies at all, why should there be any limit to what they can do? It is
the same with the saints, is it not?"
"Yes," said Bebee, thoughtfully.
The saints were mixed up in her imagination with the fairies in an
intricacy that would have defied the best reasonings of Father
Francis.
"Well, then, you will wear the stockings, will you not? Only, believe me,
your feet are far prettier without them.
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