Many words she did not know; many passages were beyond her comprehension;
she was absolutely ignorant, and had nothing but the force of her own
fancy to aid her.
But though stumbling at every step, as a lame child through a flowery
hillside in summer, she was happy as the child would be, because of the
sweet, strange air that was blowing about her, and the blossoms that she
could gather into her hand, so rare, so wonderful, and yet withal so
familiar, because they _were_ blossoms.
With her fingers buried in her curls, with her book on her knee, with the
moon rays white and strong on the page, Bebee sat entranced as the hours
went by; the children's play shouts died away; the babble of the gossip
at the house doors ceased; people went by and called good night to her;
the little huts shut up one by one, like the white and purple convolvulus
cups in the hedges.
Bebee did not stir, nor did she hear them; she was deaf even to the
singing of the nightingales in the willows, where she sat in her little
thatch above, and the wet garden-ways beyond her.
A heavy step came tramping down the lane.
Pages:
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127