The sight of the strong young forester going over the darkened fields
against the dull red skies was as a feather that suffices to sway to one
side a balance that hangs on a hair.
He had been inclined to leave her alone when he saw in his fancy the
clean, simple, mindless, honest life that her fanciful girlhood would
settle down into as time should go on. But when in the figure of the
woodman there was painted visibly on the dusky sky that end for her which
he had foreseen, he was not indifferent to it; he resented it; he was
stirred to a vague desire to render it impossible.
If Jeannot had not gone by across the fields he would have left her and
let her alone from that night thenceforwards; as it was,--
"Good night, Bebee," he said to her. "Tomorrow I will finish the
Broodhuis and bring you your first book. Do not dream too much, or you
will prick your lace patterns all awry. Good night, pretty one."
Then he turned and went back through the green dim lanes to the city.
Bebee stood a moment looking after him, with a happy smile; then she
picked up the fallen pear-blossom, and ran home as fast as her feet would
take her.
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