Waterbury evening Democrat., 1889-02-27

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 en- tranced as the hours went by; the children's play shouts died away; the babble of the gos- sip 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 convolvulss cups in the hedges.
 Bebee did not stir, nor did she hear them; she was deaf even to the singing of the night ingales in the willows where she sat in her little dark porch, with the ivy dropping from the thatch above and the wet garden ways beyond her.
 A heavy step came tramplng down the lane A voice called to her:
 "What are you doing, Bebee, there this time of the night! It is on the strike of twelve"
 She started as if she were doing some evil thing, and stretched her arms out and looked around with blinded, wondering eyes, as if she had been rudely wakened from her sleep
 What are you doing up so lateF' asked Jeannot; he was coming from the forest in the dead of night to bring food for his fam fly; he lost his sleep thus often, but he never thought that he did anything except his duty in those long, dark, tiring tranps to and fro between Soignies and Laeken.
 Bebee shut her book and smiled with dreaming eyes, that saw him not at all.
 II was reading-and, Jeannot his name is Flamen for the world-but may call him Victor"
 ''What do care for his name?''
 'You asked it this morning"
 "More fool l. Why do you read? Read ing is not for poor folk like you and me-"
 Bebee smiled up at the white, clear moon that sailed above the.woods.
 She was not awake out of her dream. She only dimly heard the words he spoke
 "You are a little peasant" said Jeannot roughly, as he paused at the gate "1t is all you can do to get your bread. You have no one to stand between you and hunger. How will it be with you when the slug gets your roses and tho snail your carnations, and your hens die of damp, and your lace is all wove awry, because your head runs on read ing and folly, and you are spoilt for all simple pleasures and for all honest works"
 She smiled, still looking up at the moon, with the dropping ivy touching her hair.
 "You are cross, dear Jeannot. Good night"
 A moment afterwards the little rickety door was shut, and the rusty bolt drawn within 1t; Jeannot stood in tho cool summer been in his wrath
 He leaned on the gate minute; ther crossed the garden as softly as his wooden shoes would let him. He tapped gently or the shutter of the lattice.
 ''Bebee = Bebes just listen. I spoke roughly, dear-I know I have no right am sorry. Will you be friends with ms againHdo be friends again"
 She opened the shutter little way, so tha he could see her pretty mouth speaking.
 "Oh, Jeannot, what does it matter? Yes we are friends-we will always be friends of course-only you do not know. Cfooe night"
 He went away with a heavy heart and . long drawn step. He would have preferred that she should have been angry with him.
 Bebee, left alone, let the clothes drop of her pretty round shoulders and her ros, limbs, and shook out her coils of hair, ant kissed the book, and laid it under her head and went to sleep with q smile on her face. Only, as she slept, her fingers moved as i she were counting her beads, and her lip | murmured:
 "Oh, dear Holy Mother, you have somucl | to think of-yes, know-an the poor, ant | all the little children. But take care of him he is called Flamen, and he lives in the stree of Mary of Burgundy; you cannot miss him and if you will look for him always, and hay heed that the angels never leave him, vii l give you my great cactus hower-my onl one-on your feast of Roses, this very year I Oh, dear Mother, you will not forget!"