worked hard just the same, and just the same was seen
trudging to and fro in the dusk of dawns and afternoons in her two little
wooden shoes. She was gentle and laborious, and gave the children her
goat's milk, and the old women the brambles of her garden.

But they grew afraid of her--afraid of that sad, changeless, far-away
look in her eves, and of the mute weariness that was on her--and, being
perplexed, were sure, like all ignorant creatures, that what was secret
must be also vile.

So they hung aloof, and let her alone, and by and by scarcely nodded as
they passed her but said to Jeannot,--

"You were spared a bad thing, lad: the child was that grand painter's
light-o'-love, that is plain to see. The mischief all comes of the stuff
old Antoine filled her head with--a stray little by-blow of chickweed
that he cockered up like a rare carnation. Oh! do not fly in a rage,
Jeannot; the child is no good, and would have made an honest man rue.
Take heart of grace, and praise the saints, and marry Katto's Lisa."

But Jeannot would never listen to the slanderers, and would never look at
Lisa, even though the door of the little hut was always closed against
him; and whenever he met Bebee on the highway she never seemed to see
him more than she saw the snow that her sabots were treading.

One night in the midwinter-time old Annemie died.

Bebee found her in the twilight with her head against the garret window,
and her left side all shrivelled and useless. She had a little sense
left, and a few fleeting breaths to draw.

"Look for the brig," she muttered. "You will not see the flag at the
masthead for the fog to-night; but his socks are dry and his pipe is
ready. Keep looking--keep looking--she will be in port to-night."

But her dead sailor never came into port; she went to him. The poor,
weakened, faithful old body of her was laid in the graveyard of the poor,
and the ships came and went under the empty garret window, and Bebee was
all alone.

She had no more anything to work for, or any bond with the lives of
others. She could live on the roots of her garden and the sale of her
hens' eggs, and she could change the turnips and carrots that grew in a
little strip of her ground for the quantity of bread that she needed.

So she gave herself up to the books, and drew herself more and more
within from the outer world. She did not know that the neighbors thought
very evil of her; she had only one idea in her mind--to be