Flemish prayer kept
watch and ward over her bed. For the rest, being poetical, as these north
folks are not, and having in her--wherever it came from, poor little
soul--a warmth of fancy and a spirituality of vision not at all northern,
she had mixed up her religion with the fairies of Antoine's stories, and
the demons in which the Flemish folks are profound believers, and the
flowers into which she put all manner of sentient life, until her
religion was a fantastic medley, so entangled that poor Father Francis
had given up in despair any attempt to arrange it more correctly. Indeed,
being of the peasantry himself, he was not so very full sure in his own
mind that demons were not bodily presences, quite as real and often much
more tangible than saints. Anyway, he let her alone; and she believed in
the goodness of God as she believed in the shining of the sun.

People looked after her as she went through the twisting, picture-like
streets, where sunlight fell still between the peaked high roofs, and
lamps were here and there lit in the bric-a-brac shops and the fruit
stalls.

Her little muslin cap blew back like the wings of a white butterfly. Her
sunny hair caught the last sun-rays. Her feet were fair in the brown
wooden shoes. Under the short woollen skirts the grace of her pretty
limbs moved freely. Her broad silver clasps shone like a shield, and she
was utterly unconscious that any one looked; she was simply and gravely
intent on reaching St. Gudule to say her one prayer and not keep the
children waiting.

Some one leaning idly over a balcony in the street that is named after
Mary of Burgundy saw her going thus. He left the balcony and went down
his stairs and followed her.

The sun-dazzle on the silver had first caught his sight; and then he had
looked downward at the pretty feet.

These are the chances women call Fate.

Bebee entered the cathedral. It was quite empty. Far away at the west end
there was an old custodian asleep on a bench, and a woman kneeling. That
was all.

Bebee made her salutations to the high altar, and stole on into the
chapel of the Saint Sacrament; it was the one that she loved best.

She said her prayer and thanked the saints for all their gifts and
goodness, her clasped hand against her silver shield, her basket on the
pavement by her, abovehead the sunset rays streaming purple and crimson
and golden through the painted windows that are the wonder of the world.

When her prayer