perfect, and yet so unintelligible, that
she could have wished to die in it.

And in her humility and her ignorance she wondered always how he--so
great, so wise, so beautiful--could have thought it ever worth his while
to leave the paradise of Rubes' land to wait with her under her little
rush-thatched roof, and bring her here to see the green leaves and the
living things of the forest.

As they went, a man was going under the trees with a load of wood upon
his back. Bebee gave a little cry of recognition.

"Oh, look, that is Jeannot! How he will wonder to see me here!"

Flamen drew her a little downward, so that the forester passed onward
without perceiving them.

"Why do you do that?" said Bebee. "Shall I not speak to him?"

"Why? To have all your neighbors chatter of your feast in the forest? It
is not worth while."

"Ah, but I always tell them everything," said Bebee. whose imagination
had been already busy with the wonders that she would unfold to Mere
Krebs and the Varnhart children.

"Then you will see but little of me, my dear. Learn to be silent, Bebee.
It is a woman's first duty, though her hardest."

"Is it?"

She did not speak for some time. She could not imagine a state of
things in which she would not narrate the little daily miracles of her
life to the good old garrulous women and the little open-mouthed romps.
And yet--she lifted her eyes to his.

"I am glad you have told me that," she said. "Though indeed. I do not see
why one should not say what one does, yet--somehow--I do not like to talk
about you. It is like the pictures in the galleries, and the music in
the cathedral, and the great still evenings, when the fields are all
silent, and it is as if Christ walked abroad in them; I do not know how
to talk of those things to the others--only to you--and I do not like to
talk _about_ you to them--do you not know?"

"Yes, I know. But what affinity have I. Bebee, to your thoughts of your
God walking in His cornfields?"

Bebee's eyes glanced down through the green aisle of the forests, with
the musing seriousness in them that was like the child-angels of
Botticelli's dreams.

"I cannot tell you very well. But when I am in the fields at evening and
think of Christ. I feel so happy, and of such good will to all the rest,
and I seem to see heaven quite plain through the beautiful gray air where
the stars are--and so I feel when I am with you--that is all. Only--"

"Only what?"

"Only in