"
Bebee did not know about that, nor heed whether her wits were right or
not.
She had known the old creature in the lace-room where Annemie pricked out
designs, and she had conceived a great regard and sorrow for her; and
when Annemie had become too ailing and aged to go herself any longer to
the lace-maker's place, Bebee had begged leave for her to have the
patterns at home, and had carried them to and fro for her for the last
three or four years, doing many other little useful services for the lone
old soul as well,--services which Annemie hardly perceived, she had
grown so used to them, and her feeble intelligence was so sunk in the one
absorbing idea that she must watch all the days through and all the years
through for the coming of the dead man and the lost brig.
Bebee put the lace patterns in her basket, and trotted home, her sabots
clattering on the stones.
"What it must be to care for any one like that!" she thought, and by some
vague association of thought that she could not have pursued, she lifted
the leaves and looked at the moss-rosebud.
It was quite dead.
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