t what _was_ before ever I was living. Ste.
Gudule now--they say it was built hundreds of years before; and Rubes
again--they say he was a painter-king in Antwerpen before the oldest
woman like Annemie ever began to count time. I am sure books tell you
all those things, because I see the students coming and going with them;
and when I saw once the millions of books in the Rue de la Musee, I
asked the keeper what use they were for, and he said, 'to make men wise,
my dear.' But Bac the cobbler, who was with me,--it was a fete day--Bac,
_he_ said, 'Do you not believe that, Bebee? they only muddle folk's
brains; for one book tells them one thing, and another book another, and
so on, till they are dazed with all the contrary lying; and if you see a
bookish man, be sure you see a very poor creature who could not hoe a
patch, or kill a pig, or stitch an upper-leather, were it ever so.' But
I do not believe that Bac said right. Did he?"

"I am not sure. On the whole, I think it is the truest remark on
literature I have ever heard, and one that shows great judgment in Bac.
Well?"

"Well--sometimes, you know," said Bebee, not understanding his answer,
but pursuing her thoughts confidentially; "sometimes I talk like this to
the neighbours, and they laugh at me. Because Mere Krebs says that when
one knows how to spin, and sweep, and make bread, and say one's prayers,
and milk a goat or a cow, it is all a woman wants to know this side of
heaven. But for me, I cannot help it--when I look at those windows in
the cathedral, or at those beautiful twisted little spires that are all
over our Hotel de Ville, I want to know who the men were that made
them--what they did and thought--how they looked and spoke--how they
learned to shape stone into leaves and grasses like that--how they could
imagine all those angel faces on the glass. When I go alone in the quite
early morning or at night when it is still--sometimes in winter I have
to stay till it is dark over the lace--I hear their feet come after me,
and they whisper to me close, 'Look what beautiful things we have done,
Bebee, and you all forget us quite. We did what never will die, but our
names are as dead as the stones.' And then I am so sorry for them and
ashamed. And I want to know more. Can you tell me?"

He looked at her earnestly; her eyes were shining, her cheeks were warm,
her little mouth was tremulous with eagerness.

"Did any one ever speak to you in that way?" he asked he