That night she worked very late watering her flowers, and trimming them,
and then ironing out a little clean white cap for the morrow; and then
sitting down under the open lattice to prick out all old Annemie's
designs by the strong light of the full moon that flooded her hut with
its radiance.
But she sang all the time she worked, and the gay, pretty, wordless songs
floated across the water and across the fields, and woke some old people
in their beds as they lay with their windows open, and they turned and
crossed themselves, and said, "Dear heart!--this is the eve of the
Ascension, and the angels are so near we hear them."
But it was no angel; only the thing that is nearer heaven than anything
else,--a little human heart that is happy and innocent.
Bebee had only one sorrow that night. The pear-blossoms were all dead;
and no care could call them back even for an hour's blooming.
"He did not think when he struck them
down," she said to herself, regretfully.
CHAPTER VIII.
"Can I do any work for you, Bebee?" said black Jeannot in the daybreak,
pushing her gate open timidly with one hand.
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