"What a pity you had no mother, Bebee!" he said, on an impulse of
emotion, of which in Paris he would have been more ashamed than
of any guilt.
CHAPTER XV.
In the deserted lane by the swans' water, under the willows, the
horses waited to take him to Mechlin; little, quick, rough horses, with
round brass bells, in the Flemish fashion, and gay harness, and a low
char-a-banc, in which a wolf-skin and red rugs, and all a painter's many
necessities, were tossed together.
He lifted her in, and the little horses flew fast through the green
country, ringing chimes at each step, till they plunged into the deep
glades of the woods of Cambre and Soignies.
Bebee sat breathless with delight.
She had never gone behind horses in all her life, except once or twice
in a wagon when the tired teamsters had dragged a load of corn across
the plains, or when the miller's old gray mare had hobbled wearily before
a cart-load of noisy, happy, mischievous children going home from the
masses and fairs, and flags, and flowers, and church banners, and
puppet-shows, and lighted altars, and whirling merry-go-rounds of the
Fete Dieu.
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