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There were little dolls and big ones; dolls with blue eyes, and others with brown; some with light hair, and some with dark; bebee Jumeau and bebee Brue; rubber dolls, and rag dolls with papier-mache faces. "How lovely they are!" she murmured to herself, including even the plainest and least among them in her appreciation of the gorgeous company. "Don't I wish Ellie could see them!" she continued.
Herne; "and, to tell you the truth, though I spoke to him just now, I expected no answer." "It's a way he has, bebee, I suppose?" "Yes, child, it's a way he has." "Take off your bonnet, bebee; perhaps he cannot see your face." "I do not think that will be of much use, child; however, I will take off my bonnet there and shake out my hair there you have seen this hair before, sir, and this face "
Carelessly and languidly he balanced the question with himself, whilst Bébée, forgetful of the lace patterns and the flight of the hours, stood looking at him with anxious and pleading eyes, thinking only was he angry again, or would he really bring her the books and make her wise, and let her know the stories of the past? "Shall I see you to-morrow?" she said wistfully.
But Bébée now lay quite still and silent on her little bed; as quiet as the waxen Gesù that they laid in the manger at the Nativity. "If she would only speak!" the women and the children wailed, weeping sorely. But she never spoke; nor did she seem to know any one of them. Not even the starling as he flew on her pillow and called her.
Bébée 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."
It is not the nature of the Hernes to be gray or wrinkled, even when they are old, and I am not old. 'How old are you, bebee? 'Sixty-five years, child an inconsiderable number. My mother was a hundred and one a considerable age when she died, yet she had not one gray hair, and not more than six wrinkles an inconsiderable number. 'She had no griefs, bebee? 'Plenty, child, but not like mine.
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 Bébée was all alone. She had no more anything to work for, or any bond with the lives of others.
The stones and the timbers around seemed more than ever full of a thousand stories that they would not tell her because she knew nothing, and was only Bébée. She had never known a dull hour before.
"You are of the people of Rubes' country, are you not?" she asked him. "Of what country, my dear?" "Of the people that live in the gold frames," said Bébée, quite seriously. "In the galleries, you know.
"Where is the mischief, good Reine?" said Bébée, who was always prettily behaved with her elders, though, when pushed to it, she could hold her own. "The mischief will be in discontent," said the sabot-maker's wife. "People live on their own little patch, and think it is the world; that is as it should be everybody within his own, like a nut in its shell.
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